Al-Andalus, Sepharad and Medieval Iberia

Al-Andalus, Sepharad and Medieval Iberia Cultural Contact and Diﬀ usion

Ivy A. Corﬁ s Department of Spanish and Portuguese University of Wisconsin–Madison Madison, WI, USA

Leiden • Boston 2009 Th is book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Corﬁ s, Ivy A.

Al-Andalus, Sepharad, and medieval Iberia : cultural contact and diﬀ usion / Ivy Corﬁ s.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-90-04-17919-6 (pbk.: alk. paper) 1. Acculturation—Spain—Andalusia— History—To 1500. 2. Acculturation—Spain—History—To 1500. 3. Culture diﬀ usion—Spain—Andalusia—History—To 1500. 4. Culture diﬀ usion—Spain— History—To 1500. 5. Andalusia (Spain)—Ethnic relations. 6. Spain—Ethnic relations. 7. Iberian Peninsula—Ethnic relations. 8. Andalusia (Spain)—Civilization. 9. Spain— Civilization. 10. Iberian Peninsula—Civilization. I. Title.

DP302.A468C67 2009

946’.02—dc22

2009031414

ISBN-13 978 90 04 17919 6

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Printed in the Netherlands CONTENTS

Special Issue: Al-Andalus, Sepharad and Medieval Iberia: Cultural Contact and Diﬀ usion

Acknowledgements ...... i

Introduction: Ivy A. Corfis, Th ree Cultures, One World ...... iii

Articles

I. Contact through Art and Learning Bernard R. Goldstein, Astronomy as a “Neutral Zone”: Interreligious Cooperation in Medieval Spain ...... 3 Maribel Fierro, Alfonso X “Th e Wise”: Th e Last Almohad Caliph? ...... 19 Harvey J. Hames, It Takes Th ree to Tango: Ramon Llull, Solomon ibn Adret and Alfonso of Valladolid Debate the Trinity ...... 43 Richard C. Taylor, Ibn Rushd/Averroes and “Islamic” Rationalism ...... 69 Dwight F. Reynolds, Music in Medieval Iberia: Contact, Inﬂ uence and Hybridization ...... 80

II. Contact through Society Francisco J. Hernández, Th e Jews and the Origins of Romance Script in Castile: A New Paradigm ...... 103 Ross Brann, Th e Moors? ...... 151

Th e page numbers in the above Table of contents and in the Index refer to the bracketed page numbers in this volume. vi Contents

María Jesús Fuente, Christian, Muslim and Jewish Women in Late Medieval Iberia ...... 163

III. Contact through Conflict Russell Hopley, Th e Ransoming of Prisoners in Medieval North Africa and Andalusia: An Analysis of the Legal Framework ...... 181 Justin Stearns, Representing and Remembering al-Andalus: Some Historical Considerations Regarding the End of Time and the Making of Nostalgia ...... 199 Denise K. Filios, Legends of the Fall: Conde Julián in Medieval Arabic and Hispano-Latin Historiography ...... 219 Danya Crites, Churches Made Fit for a King: Alfonso X and Meaning in the Religious Architecture of Post-Conquest Seville ...... 235

Index ...... i Medieval Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture Encounters in Confluence and Dialogue Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-ii brill.nl/me

Acknowledgements

I would like to acknowledge the generous support of the Program for Cul- tural Cooperation Between Spain’s Ministry of Culture and the United States Universities, as well as the Nave Fund of the Latin American, Carib- bean and Iberian Studies Program for assistance with the conference and the production costs of this volume. I would also like to thank the Anony- mous Fund of the College of Letters of Science, the Lubar Institute for the Study of the Abrahamic Religions, the Ettinger Family Foundation, as well as the Departments of Spanish and Portuguese, African Languages and Literatures, Art History, Hebrew and Semitic Studies, the Center for Euro- pean Studies, and the Medieval Studies Program of the University of Wis- consin-Madison for their support of the 2007 Conference, which was the impetus for this volume. Special thanks as well to Esperanza Alfonso (Uni- versidad Complutense, Madrid, Spain), whose recent book is a milestone in the ﬁ eld and whose participation in the conference was fundamental; to the Organizing Committee (Ray Harris-Northall, Th omas E. A. Dale and Michael H. Shank) for their help in organizing and planning the conference; to the Advisory Committee (Pablo Ancos, Steven Hutchinson, Charles Cohen, Paul Rowe, Jacques Lezra, David Morgan, Dustin Cowell, Uli Schamiloglu, Christopher Kleinhenz and Esperanza Alfonso) for their guidance; as well as to the program assistants: Stacy Bryant, William M. Rueter, Jason Doroga and Courtney Lanz. Th anks also go to Cynthia Rob- inson for her excellent supervision in the publication of the volume, and special thanks to the Editorial Advisory Committee (Th omas E. A. Dale, Michael H. Shank, David Morgan and Ray Harris-Northall), and additionally and particularly to Pablo Ancos and Ray Harris for always being ready to listen, read and give suggestions for the improvement of this Spe- cial Issue of Medieval Encounters. Last, I would like to thank the following for permission to reproduce images from their holdings: the Archivo Histórico Nacional (Madrid, Spain), Biblioteca Nacional de España (Madrid, Spain), the library of the Real Academia de la Historia (Madrid, Spain), Museo Arqueológico y Etnológico (Córdoba, Spain), and the library of the University of California at Berkeley (Berkeley, CA, USA).

Without the help of many people, programs and foundations, too many to list here individually, the conference and this volume would not have been possible.

Ivy A. Corﬁ s Medieval Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture Encounters in Confluence and Dialogue Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv brill.nl/me

Th ree Cultures, One World

Ivy A. Corﬁ s University of Wisconsin-Madison

Today, as in the past, al-Andalus evokes a wide variety of images and reactions. One need only “google” the term al-Andalus to see more than two million entries, ranging from art to dance, contemporary music and hotels to study-abroad programs; from festivals and blogs on history and culture to calls to jihād. Idealization of and a renewed interest in al-Andalus, especially vis-à-vis its linkage to modern political events, is evinced even through television programming: e.g., the Public Broadcasting Service’s airing of the 2007 documentary Cities of Light: Th e Rise and Fall of Islamic Spain. All these recent views of al-Andalus and medieval Iberia remind us how very diff erent yet how very similar 711 is to 9/11 and 3/11. In any period, in any cultural confi guration, there are boundaries, whether permeable or not, visible or not: boundaries of belief, language boundaries, social boundaries of culture and religion, boundaries of government and political rule. Boundaries are clearly mutable as they shift and change; and boundaries—either by crossing or respecting them—bring about contact of one sort or another: contact of resistance or tolerance, of reaching across or of staying within borders. Cultures meet without necessarily accepting or rejecting one another. Boundaries and their crossing need not bring about infl uence or contention, simply contact. In medieval Iberia, contact is usually discussed within the context of the three cultures: Christian, Jewish and Islamic. Al-Andalus, past and present, may evoke nostalgia for a lost paradise or golden age, but the exact dating, or even existence, of such a “golden age” is not universally accepted. Most scholars will agree that, if it did exisit, it included and centered around the Umayyads of Córdoba and the caliphate that ended in 1031. Th e “peaceful” co-existence of the three cultures, even within a golden age, is also subject to interpretation. In general, one can identify two major critical stances regarding cultural contact in Iberia. On the one hand, some

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 iv I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv scholars, such as María Rosa Menocal, maintain that tolerance was woven into the structure of Andalusian society, where the dhimmī (‘People of the Book’; that is, Jews and Christians), were protected under the Islamic rule of the caliphate, albeit with certain social restrictions (see, for example, Menocal 29-30, 72-73). It can be argued, then, that in al-Andalus Jews in particular lived with more freedom to participate in the political and social spheres than they did in Christian Europe. However, scholars such as Ber- nard Lewis and Mark Cohen argue that a golden age of tolerance is not based in historical fact but is rather a myth propagated as part of an ideological struggle fostered by scholars in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, as a reaction to the oppression of Jews in Eastern Europe and the Zionist movement. In al-Andalus, under Islam, the Jews prospered in some contexts, for example, under the reigns of ‘Abd al-Raḥmān III (r. 912-961) and al- Ḥ akam II (until 976), in the service of the caliphate, but the pogroms against the Jews in Córdoba in 1011 and in Granada in 1066 deny a gen- eralized pacifi c co-existence. With the Almoravids in the Peninsula, tolerance became even more problematic, with moments of some exception, such as the rule of ‘Ali III of Morocco (r. 1106-1142), who was defeated by Alfonso VII, Emperor of Spain, in 1138 and by Afonso I of Portugal a year later. Under the Almohads the fate of the Jews was sealed; they were forced to convert to Islam or fl ee, and synagogues were destroyed. Both Jews and Christians fl ed to the north. “As a result of the Jewish (and Christian) exodus, the cultural and linguistic boundaries were renegotiated. Th e status of Arabic, as well as that of Hebrew, would be brought to the foreground not just in the period that followed the North African invasions and during the subsequent process of adaptation to the new Christian setting, but over the course of the next three hundred years” (Alfonso 17). Th us the shift in tolerance redrew the boundaries of politics, culture and language. Th e same can be said for the Christians. Th e Visigoths and their heirs, upon the rapid conquest by the Islamic forces, experienced periods of tolerance and intolerance as borders were redrawn. Indeed, tolerance toward the Christians may have been nothing more than a political strategy resulting from liberal surrender treaties off ered to and negotiated by the Chris- tian rulers (Lowney 38). Th e extent of tolerance, then, is diffi cult to determine. How is tolerance defi ned and measured? How tolerant was the tolerance? With the Chris- tian movement into Islamic territories, the debate continues, albeit in a diff erent vein. Clearly Christian political rule over Jews and Muslims I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv v brought new complexities to cultural contact in the Iberian Peninsula; but again, scholars argue for periods of golden age, even up to the fi nal expul- sions of 1492 and 1614. A prime example are the Jews who fought with Alfonso VI of Castile against Islamic troops, and the “School of Toledo,” which was founded in what was one of Europe’s great cultural and ethni- cally diverse cities even before the Christian and Jewish exodus from the southern Peninsula upon the Almohad invasions. As Chris Lowney has summarized:

Medieval Spain’s Muslims, Christians, and Jews embraced and rejected each other’s faith traditions and customs, fought alongside each other and against each other, occa- sionally tolerated their neighbors and somehow forged a golden age for each faith. Th ey allow us some glimpse of what a common society might look like. Th eir glory was their joint accomplishments; their tragedy that they could not see and preserve what made those accomplishments possible . . . Uncomfortable necessity, rather than some higher-minded ideal of tolerance, ﬁ rst spurred the accommodation that scholars hail as Spain’s era of convivencia. (14, 189)

Indeed, the complexity of the cultural contact, in moments of tolerance and moments of enmity, is not easily described by one term or defi nition. Th e mixture of cultures is a multi-faceted, wide-ranging topic, where clear defi nitions are elusive. Th e purpose of this volume of essays is to probe more widely and deeply into the context of contact in the Iberian Peninsula through the sixteenth century. With the recent foci of post-colonial and border studies applied to the Middle Ages, and even with the re-conceptualization of what is “medieval” and what is “contact,” scholars fi nd the medieval Iberian multicultural existence an intriguing area of investigation. It is, however, an intellectually subtle exercise to bring to bear the modern concepts of “post- colonialism” and “borders” to the medieval or early modern world, where frontiers and borders were permeable and mutable. Even the concept of a “frontier” or “border” must be culturally as well as chronologically specifi c, as some of the papers in this volume show. Terms and defi nitions need to be redefi ned when applied to the period under study in al-Andalus and the Peninsula. Medieval Iberian border-crossers were not what we associate today with the concern of illegal immigration or the debate that rages around such concepts in twenty-fi rst-century North America, Europe and, indeed, the world. Yet, the context of al-Andalus brings to the fore important and timeless issues regarding religious and ethnic contact and society and borders overall. vi I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv

Borders, frontiers and multiculturalism are essential features of al-Anda- lus and the Iberian Peninsula; but just as the terms themselves need defi nition for the period to which they are applied, so too does the understanding of “contact” within the context of changing borders and the infl uences that may occur from contact. Indeed, infl uence is a very slippery slope on which to begin a scholarly trek, for measuring it requires information that is not always extant. What we can measure and discuss, as many of the following essays show, is where, how and why cultures come in contact in Medieval Iberia in general and in al-Andalus in particular, and how cultures meet (or not) within the geographical context of the area. Th e current volume results from a conference held in October 2007 on the University of Wisconsin-Madison campus: “Al-Andalus: Cultural Dif- fusion and Hybridity in Iberia (1000-1600).” Th e conference brought together scholars from across the US and abroad to discuss how these concepts had an impact not only on the identity of the Peninsula but on the diff usion, change and advancement of knowledge in science, art, literature and religious culture: contact across cultures that ultimately produced traditions carried later to other parts of Europe and the Americas. From that conference twelve essays were selected for publication in this volume. Th e present collection of essays has been grouped into three sections that study various manifestations of contact: contact through art and learning, through society and culture and through confl ict. Th e essays in each section center around the boundaries of contact and how that contact either crossed or reinforced cultural borders in the broadest sense of the word: including those of art, thought, ethno-religious beliefs and political realms. Th e fi rst grouping of essays, Contact through Art and Learning, brings together insightful articles by Bernard R. Goldstein, Maribel Fierro, Harvey J. Hames, Richard C. Taylor and Dwight F. Reynolds, that address the question of how contact aff ected art and culture through the appropriation of ideas in science, philosophy and music, to enrich the cultures on the one hand and cause debate on the other. Even through debate, it is clear that scholarly thought and models crossed and superceded religious, political and philosophical boundaries. Professor Bernard R. Goldstein (University of Pittsburgh), in “Astron- omy as a ‘Neutral Zone’: Interreligious Cooperation in Medieval Spain,” demonstrates how throughout the medieval Iberian Peninsula, Jews and Christians contributed to the study of astronomy as a “neutral zone” where scholars of diff erent faiths borrowed ideas from one another. He provides various examples of this scholarly interaction, with special emphasis on the I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv vii

Alfonsine Tables. Although it has long been known that the study of astronomy in Spain was a cooperative eff ort on the part of Muslims, Jews and Christians and that this knowledge passed to European astronomers north of the Peninsula, the scholarly interactions across the various Iberian religious communities had been relatively overlooked until Professor Gold- stein’s work. As he shows, astronomy was an intellectual space where scholars who were sharply divided on religious questions could come together to exchange knowledge. While in ninth- and tenth-century Bagh- dad the gathering of scholars across faiths became more common as a way to share knowledge, in Medieval Europe such activities rarely took place except in the Iberian Peninsula. Th e importance of this exchange of knowledge cannot be overstated; it represents a signifi cant Iberian cultural phenomenon that added to the European and world intellectual development. Maribel Fierro (Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científi cas), in “Alfonso X ‘Th e Wise’: Th e Last Almohad Caliph?,” makes the case that in the thirteenth century there was a period of infl uence and contact between the peoples of Christendom, Islam and Judaism that can be linked to Islamic thought. In particular, she studies Almohadism and the unique characteristics of Almohad political and religious doctrine. She enumerates fi ve points of interest: (1) a theocratic government founded by a quasi- prophetic fi gure, where the leader is the vicar of God on earth and the promoter and guarantor of all knowledge; (2) the creation of new religious and political elites, educated under the direct control of the caliph; (3) legislative unifi cation, political and administrative centralization and reforms of weights and measures; (4) the encouragement of encyclopedic knowledge and the development of philosophy, natural sciences and magical and Kabbalistic knowledge; (5) an interest in extending knowledge through educational texts and works. She postulates that aspects of Alfonso X’s legislative and intellectual initiatives parallel the concerns of the Almo- had caliphs, thus placing the Learned King as the last in an important line of leaders following that model. Harvey J. Hames (Ben Gurion University of the Negev), in “It Takes Th ree to Tango: Ramon Llull, Solomon ibn Adret and Alfonso of Vallado- lid Debate the Trinity,” studies the three authors to discuss how in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries their arguments exemplify the boundaries and relationship between religious traditions. Llull’s use of the doctrine of the correlatives to prove to Jews and Muslims the absolute truth of Christianity was disputed by Ibn Adret, the leader of the Jewish community in Aragón and Catalonia. Ibn Adret’s response deals in part viii I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv with interpreting the Midrash on Psalm 50:1. Th e same Midrash was then taken up by Alfonso of Valladolid (or Abner of Burgos), using it as it was understood by Jewish scholars, but in support of Christianity. Alfonso uses the Jewish terminology that Llull lacked to address the doubts of his Jewish audience. Th e three scholars refl ect an ongoing confl ict between rationalism and faith in both religions. Alfonso debates Adret’s reading of the Midrash and seems to engage directly with Llull’s theory of the correlatives to suggest, like Llull, that if Adret’s ideas are accepted, the truth of the Trinity, and thus of Christianity, is certain. Th e debate and methodologies demonstrate the complexities of religious conversion and the philosophical boundaries that distinguish Jews and Christians. Richard C. Taylor (Marquette University), in “Ibn Rushd / Averroes and ‘Islamic’ Rationalism,” studies Ibn Rushd’s Fasḷ al-Maqāl, or Book of the Distinction of Discourse and the Establishment of the Relation of Religious Law and Philosophy. While the work can be read as a religious treatise when viewed through the lens of religious law, or sharī‘a, the Fasḷ al-Maqāl is in fact a philosophical treatise disguised as a fatwā. From that point of view Professor Taylor analyzes the rationalist monotheistic philosophy of Ibn Rushd and the coherence of his works and writings in the context of Andalusian rationalism. He shows that Ibn Rushd viewed Greek Aristo- telian philosophy as central to the understanding of God and evoked sharī‘a within the Long Commentary on the Metaphysics of Aristotle (Tafsīr mā ba‘d at-Ṭ ̣abī‘at). He sees a consistency in Ibn Rushd’s rationalist project, albeit a very special kind of rationalism, that is fully compatible with Islam. Although Ibn Rushd’s view did not take root in dār al-Islām, its infl uence through translations in the Latin West would continue to impact Christian writers versed in Augustinian thought, who affi rmed the importance of faith as the basis for understanding. Dwight F. Reynolds (University of California at Santa Barbara), in “Music in Medieval Iberia: Contact, Infl uence and Hybridization,” re- examines the history of medieval Iberian musical traditions through evidence found in Arabic manuscripts and early Castilian writings, treating the role of musicians and singers in medieval Iberia as well as the introduction and development of the “bowed lute,” or “fi ddle.” Sources show that interaction between the two musical cultures was more profound and prolonged than previously thought. From a fourteenth-century Syrian manuscript Professor Reynolds fi nds previously unknown biographies of late-eighth- and early-ninth-century musicians/singers in the Cordoban courts of al-Ḥ akam I (r. 806-822) and ‘Abd al-Raḥmān II (822-852). Th e I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv ix information gleaned from the lives of these artists provides a rich understanding of the music of the early Umayyad period, rewriting both the chronology of the merger of Arabic and Christian music and the categori- zation of singers. Th ese texts put forth a portrait of musical cultures that were very much in contact and, as a result of that contact, developed dis- tinctive characteristics that set them apart from the music of Christian Europe on the one hand and that of the eastern Arabo-Islamic world on the other. With regard to the “bowed lute,” it is commonly repeated that its arrival in Europe came through the Arabs, by way of northern Iberia, where the playing position changed from vertical to horizontal against the chest or shoulder. However, upon scrutiny of visual representations in text and sculpture, it would seem that the history of bowed string instruments is a complicated narrative, undergoing transformations, traveling from one region to another and surviving into the present-day in a wide range of forms. Professor Reynolds concludes from the extant documentation that perhaps the scholarship on medieval Iberia would be best served by letting the evidence speak for itself without imposing established terminology such as “Christian,” “Jewish” or “Arabic,” to let the true richness of contact across cultural boundaries be seen on its own terms. As a group, the articles in this section remind us how contact infl uenced art and learning in a wide range of fi elds: politics, science, philosophy, music and religion. Scholars sought knowledge across cultural borders and from all points of contact; the dividing line between “Christian,” “Jew- ish” and “Islamic” became blurred as cultures shared intellectual and artistic pursuits. Th e appropriation of art and ideas did not recognize cultural or political boundaries, but rather crossed over and through lines of cultural division. In the second section of the volume, Contact through Society, Francisco J. Hernández, Ross Brann and María Jesús Fuente present three very different views of how contact between societies aff ects language, stereotype and assimilation. Francisco J. Hernández (Carleton University), in “Th e Jews and the Origins of Romance Script in Castile: A New Paradigm,” studies Jewish documents dating from 1187, 1219 and 1220, from the region of Santa María in Aguilar de Campoo, in the northwestern tip of Castile, to show how a new Romance code was fi nding its way into written script. He notes that none of the fi ve initial Cistercian abbeys founded in the 1140s seem to be interested in linguistic innovation, but that a second generation of monastic expansion in the 1160s and 70s show evidence of writing that anticipates subsequent Romance script. Texts from Aguilar in x I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries exhibit Romance tendencies, especially in the limited use of abbreviations. Th e oldest Aguilar Jewish document written in Romance dates from 1187 and would seem to implicate the soferim scribes in the expansion of non-Latinate writing models. It is only in the 1180s that Romance texts move away from the use of Latin to a writing code that resembles what is seen in Spanish today. By the fi rst decade of the thirteenth century, a series of documents related to the Cis- tercian convents of San Clemente in Toledo, Las Huelgas of Burgos and even to the royal chancery exhibit similar traits; it may be no coincidence that the earliest literary texts written in Romance also appear around this time. Once the script spread in use, it was adapted to the linguistic conditions of local populations, including Jewish communities in diff erent parts of Castile. Th e aljama of Aguilar seems to have embraced the innovation early on and provides the fi rst-known Jewish contribution to the development of written Spanish. Ross Brann (Cornell University), in “Th e Moors?,” looks at the socio- historical importance of the term Moor from early modern Spain to the present day. Medieval Iberia was clearly characterized by a high degree of cultural and religious diversity, and ninth- and tenth-century Muslim His- pania was a center of urban culture and independent polity that governed most of the Peninsula. Th e Iberian multiculturalism that passed from al- Andalus to the Christian Castile has captured the modern and post-modern imagination. However, the term Moor takes on various meanings through the ages. Canonical texts such as the Poema de Fernán González and the Alfonsine Primera crónica clearly demonstrate the thirteenth-century Castilian cultural opposition between Christian and Islamic identi- ties. Th e word Moor marked Andalusi Muslims as Other in a Christian Iberian context. Professor Brann maintains that the term enabled thirteenth-century Christian Castile to categorize as “foreign” the diverse Andalusi Muslim population as well as its own Mudejar citizenry. Even in our own time, in modern fi lm and texts, Moor is still a term that attempts to reclaim or re-invent the non-Christian Other in various forms. María Jesús Fuente (Universidad Carlos III de Madrid), in “Christian, Muslim and Jewish Women in Late Medieval Iberia,” studies the role of women in the diff usion of culture within the Peninsula. Th rough documentary evidence, Professor Fuente assesses the function of women in the domestic and public space, through their work in daily tasks as well as keeping religious and ethnic traditions and customs. She concludes that women were guardians of cultural identity in their communities and I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv xi resisted change within the private domestic space. Professor Fuente studies women’s interaction and function in the public sphere, in diff erent settings and under various conditions, to show that they could learn from one another through families divided by religion, through social festivities, or as practitioners of various professions such as midwives and nursemaids. However, in spite of frequent contact, there was little integration among communities or infl uence of other cultures in the household. While women were submissive and stayed within their culturally and socially assigned roles, their passivity became a boundary mechanism to protect the home from outside cultural infl uences. Women accepted others outside the home in public spaces and celebrations, but in the home they closed the door to the world and defended their religious identity against external forces. As a group, these three articles show that while contact between the Christian, Jewish and Islamic cultures brought advances in the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries through language and letters, it also created tensions as pluralism dissipated into distinctions between “us” and “them,” and women worked to close the home to the outside world, as if it were a kingdom unto itself, with borders to defend and protect. Just as the Islamic Other became a foreigner in his own land, so too the Iberian Jewish communities that helped to create Romance script would later suff er cultural change and expulsion with shifting political realities; and women, while instrumental in protecting the minorities’ cultural identity, were assigned limited and specifi c roles and functions. Linguistic and social boundaries are redrawn as cultures come into contact. In the third section, Contact through Confl ict, Russell Hopley, Justin Stearns, Denise K. Filios and Danya Crites investigate various approaches in diff erent contexts to examine how, even up to the present, war and confl ict, bringing cultural realities into contact, (re)defi ne the representation of ideas, places and people through myths, longing, remembering, architecture and legal constructs. Russell Hopley (Princeton University), in “Th e Ransoming of Prisoners in Medieval North Africa and Andalusia: An Analysis of the Legal Frame- work,” explores points of contact between Muslim and Christian cultures through the act of ransoming captives in warfare. Th e practice of ransom was governed by Islamic law, which established a legal framework for the release of Christians held by Muslims. Th e process of ransom also occupied the attention of law codes in al-Andalus, with considerable re-working of Muslim legal constructs to fi t the particular circumstances of Iberia; the ʿulamāʾ recognized that the rules codifi ed in the seventh century for xii I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv ransoming non-Muslims did not always fi t the circumstances of the Maghreb some fi ve hundred years later. Th e ʿulamāʾ developed a considerable understanding of fi dā’, or ‘ransom,’ and Andalusian laws provide insight into how Muslim jurists viewed interaction with non-Muslims, especially with regard to prisoners. Professor Hopley focuses on the Cor- doban jurist Abū ’l-Walīd b. Rushd (d. 1126), grandfather of the well- known Muslim philosopher Averroes, who assumed the post of qādị̄ al-qudāṭ of Córdoba during the period of Almoravid rule (1070-147). Th e writings of this infl uential jurist show how Islamic Spain reacted to the Christians from the northern kingdoms through a series of advisory legal opinions, fatwā, that address the status and ransom of Christian prisoners held by Muslims. In addition, Ibn Rushd compiled a summa on Islamic law, al-Bayān wa’l- taḥsīḷ , dedicated to a more theoretical treatment of fi dā’, which shows how Ibn Rushd understands ransom to operate in relation to jihād against non-Muslims. What Professor Hopley concludes from the study of the laws, as they were adopted over time and implemented in different parts of the Islamic world, is that the twelfth century was a turning point when the eastern Islamic world began to look west for guidance on many fronts: a view of Maghrebi history that off ers new understanding and insights into this region of the Islamic world. Justin Stearns (Middlebury College) in “Representing and Remember- ing al-Andalus: Some Historical Considerations Regarding the End of Time and the Making of Nostalgia,” explores this concept in the writings on al-Andalus. Th e narratives written during the Umayyad caliphate, such as the works of Ibn Ḥ abīb (d. 238/853) and Ibn al-Qūtiyyạ (d. 367/977), show how al-Andalus was represented during this early period of Arab dominance. Later the historical presence of al-Andalus was described by writers such as al-Ḥ umaydi (d. 488/1095). Th e anonymous Fatḥ al-Anda- lus and Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus and the work of Ibn Sa‘īd (d. 685/1286) also turned to the Peninsula’s past. Th en, after the defeat of the Almohads and the establishment of the Nasrids in Granada, writers again addressed the glory and importance of al-Andalus in the century prior to 1492. Finally, the Moroccan historian al-Maqqarī (d. 1043/1631) and the ambassador al-Ghassānī (d. 1119/1707) off er a consideration of al-Andalus’ importance for Muslims in North Africa after the fi nal expulsion of the moriscos between 1609-1614. Th ese and other texts discussed by Professor Stearns show the shifting importance of territorial identity in Andalusi historiography. It was a land of wonders and a land of jihād: a place linked to the end of time. While al-Andalus cannot be defi ned by a single term, I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv xiii meaning or representation, as Professor Stearns shows, it is continually linked to a discourse of remembrance and comes to be viewed with nostalgia. Denise K. Filios (University of Iowa) writes on “Legends of the Fall: Conde Julián in Medieval Arabic and Hispano-Latin Historiography,” analyzing the legend of Count Julián and the Muslim invasion of Hispania to avenge the rape of his daughter. Although historians have shown the legend to be more myth than fact, literary studies continue to consider Julián as an historical fi gure. Th e legend was adopted by Christian writers to explain or justify the fall of the Visigoths to the Islamic armies, attribut- ing political, cultural and religious signifi cance to the conquest of Iberia. Professor Filios focuses on the treatment of Count Julián in the Crónica mozárabe de 754; ‘Abd al-Malik Ibn Ḥ abīb’s (d. 853) Kitāb al-Ta’rīkh; Ibn ‘Abd al-Ḥ akam’s (d. 870-871) Futūḥ Misr;̣ Crónica de Alfonso III (post 884); Akhbār Majmū‘a fī fatḥ al-Andalus (c. 940); Ibn al-Qūtiyya’ṣ Tārīkh iftitāḥ al-Andalus (before 977); the Chronica gothorum pseudo-isidoriana (1100-1150); the Historia silense (1110-1120); and the Chronicon mundi of Lucas, Bishop of Tuy (1236-1242). Professor Filios traces the development of the Count Julián legend, as it combines historical and fi ctional elements to explain the Muslim victory. Julián becomes the legendary fi gure defending his borders as well as the border-crosser; the Strait is a border that both separates and joins, both barrier and conveyance. Over- all, the narratives crafted a series of exemplum that downplayed the tale’s politico-military aspect to emphasize the confrontation between pseudo- historical fi gures in an ideological context, with the Julián fi gure fulfi lling the purpose and vision of his role that each text upheld in its specifi c time of composition. Danya Crites (University of Iowa), in “Churches Made Fit for a King: Alfonso X and Meaning in the Religious Architecture of Post-Conquest Seville,” studies the architectural projects of the Christian monarchs during the thirteenth century, particularly those in Seville, where the conversion of mosques to churches, and the extensive building of churches overall, can be directly related to a desire to refl ect power and cultural dominance. Both Fernando III and his son Alfonso X converted important mosques to Christian churches upon their victories in Seville. Many were signifi cantly altered or entirely replaced. Th is is especially true of the Great Mosque and its minaret, the Giralda, an important symbol of Islamic culture until its meaning was undone with its conversion into a cathedral bell tower. Th e Great Mosque’s transformation into a Christian cathedral exemplifi es the way in which political and cultural power can be made manifest through xiv I. A. Corfi s / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) iii-xiv physical buildings and monuments. Th e construction of numerous religious structures in Seville may also be related to the imperial vision held by Alfonso, as physical buildings become symbols of empire. Professor Crites concludes that architecture provided an avenue to reaffi rm Christian sovereignty over Seville, and that the shift in boundaries between Islamic and Christian rule is manifested through the appropriation of architectural structure and space. Th e modifi cation of Seville’s religious and secular buildings is a visual manifestation of power in a frontier society and creates symbols of Alfonso’s political ambitions at home and abroad. In sum, the four essays in this section demonstrate how representations changed over time through contact and confl ict: laws and realities shifted and changed; buildings refl ected power and conquest; borders were permeable and fl uctuating; and the past was remembered and reconsidered through the lens of later realities. Boundaries in governance, time and space are constantly redefi ned as cultures meet. Th e articles in this volume show the many facets of contact in al-Anda- lus and Medieval Iberia. Lessons of the past apply today as al-Andalus captures the modern imagination and cultures continue to come into contact across borders that either allow fl uid diff usion of ideas or block their passage. A post-modern world continues to deal with issues still vital as cultures face off and open or close frontiers to ideas, customs, ideologies and the arts. Al-Andalus is still a wonder even after its golden age.

Works Cited

Alfonso, Esperanza. Islamic Culture Th rough Jewish Eyes: Al-Andalus from the Tenth to Twelfth Century. Routledge Studies in Middle Eastern Literatures 20. London/New York, NY: Routledge, 2008. Cities of Light: Th e Rise and Fall of Islamic Spain. Executive Producers Alexander Kronemer and Michael Wolfe. Dir. and Producer Robert Gardner. DVD. Unity Productions Foundation, 2007. Cohen, Mark R. Under Crescent and Cross: Th e Jews in the Middle Ages. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994. Lewis, Bernard. Th e Jews of Islam. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984. Lowney, Chris. A Vanished World: Medieval Spain’s Golden Age of Enlightenment. New York, NY: Free Press, 2005. Menocal, María Rosa. Th e Ornament of the World: How Muslims, Jews, and Christians Cre- ated a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain. Boston, MA: Little, Brown, 2002. I. CONTACT THROUGH ART AND LEARNING

Medieval Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture Encounters in Confluence and Dialogue Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 brill.nl/me

Astronomy as a “Neutral Zone”: Interreligious Cooperation in Medieval Spain

Bernard R. Goldstein Department of Religious Studies, University of Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh, PA 15260, USA e-mail: [email protected]

Abstract Interreligious cooperation on philosophical and scientiﬁ c matters was part of the legacy of the culture developed under Muslim auspices in Baghdad in the ninth and tenth centuries. Th is kind of cooperation continued in both Muslim and Christian Spain, although there are instances where Jews and Christians did not wish to call attention to it. Several episodes from the twelfth to the ﬁ fteenth centuries involving astronomers are examined in detail to illustrate both “open” and “discreet” cooperation among Jews and Christians in medieval Spain. Alfonso X of Castile (d. 1284) is well known as a patron of both Jewish and Chris- tian astronomers, and the compilation of the Alfonsine Tables of Toledo was a notable achievement. Th e case of Abraham Zacut (d. 1515) of Salamanca is also discussed, and some myths about him are dispelled.

Keywords Abraham Ibn Ezra, Alfonsine Tables, Abraham Zacut, Azarchiel, John Vimond

Astronomy was one of the most intensively studied scientifi c disciplines in the Islamic world, beginning in the eighth century in Baghdad. Th ere were two main traditions, Indian and Greek, that were fundamental for subsequent research in this domain. Th e fi rst tradition to reach Baghdad came from India, but it was largely displaced by the Greek tradition that arrived a few years later. In both cases there were translations into Arabic, and shortly thereafter adaptations by Muslim astronomers. It is customary now to refer to a Renaissance in Baghdad in the ninth century, for the level of astronomical research far exceeded that which took place in the immediately preceding centuries (Goldstein, “Making of Astronomy in Early Islam”). In general, high culture fl owed from Baghdad to the provinces, and this included the study of astronomy. Th us, both Greek and Indian

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 [4] 160 B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 traditions were transmitted to al-Andalus, which were the basis for further work by Muslim, Jewish and Christian astronomers in Spain and, later, in other parts of Europe as these ideas were diff used from Spain (Samsó). Th e Greek tradition, mainly based on the Almagest of Ptolemy (who lived in Alexandria, c. 150), was represented in Spain by the Arabic treatise of al- Battānī (who lived in Raqqa on the upper Euphrates, c. 900) and the Indian tradition by the Arabic treatise of al-Khwārizmī (who lived in Bagh- dad, c. 840). Th e treatise of al-Battānī survives as a complete text in only one Arabic manuscript (now in the Escorial Library), and it was translated, in some cases with modifi cations, into Hebrew, Latin and Castilian (Nal- lino). Th e Arabic text of al-Khwārizmī is not extant; a version of it in Arabic was composed by Maslama al-Majrītị̄ (c. 1000) in al-Andalus, and it too is lost. However, a Latin translation of al-Majrītī’ṣ version ascribed to Adelard of Bath (fl . 1130) survives (Suter; Neugebauer). Moreover, a commentary in Arabic on al-Khwārizmī’s tables, composed in al-Andalus by Ibn al-Muthannā (tenth century), survives in two Hebrew versions (one of which is by Abraham Ibn Ezra, d. 1167) and in a Latin version by Hugo Sanctallensis (fl . 1150; Goldstein, Ibn al-Muthannā’s Commentary; Millás Vendrell). Th ere was a great deal of activity in translating Arabic texts into Hebrew and Latin in the twelfth century owing, in part, to the prestige of Arabic culture in general, and astronomy in particular, that was keenly felt by the Jewish and Christian communities in both Muslim and Christian Spain. Th roughout the medieval period Jews and Christians in the Iberian Penin- sula, both separately and together, continued to make contributions to the study of astronomy. As we will see, astronomy was a “neutral zone” in which scholars of one faith had no problem borrowing ideas from scholars of another faith. A few episodes will also illustrate various ways in which Jews and Christians cooperated, sometimes openly while at other times “discreetly.” As historical background, one should be aware that the Chris- tian conquest of Toledo from the Muslims in 1085 led to the entry into al-Andalus of fanatical groups from North Africa, namely, the Almoravids in 1090 and the Almohads in 1149 (Lapidus 314), who were, in general, hostile to the Jewish community (Gampel 20-21). By the middle of the twelfth century, most Spanish Jews lived in Christian Spain. Nevertheless, Jews retained their knowledge of the Arabic language and culture. To set the stage, let me begin with a quotation from Abraham Ibn Ezra’s introduction to his Hebrew translation of Ibn al-Muthannā’s commentary on the astronomical tables of al-Khwārizmī. Th is report on the early devel- B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 161 [5] opment of astronomy in the Islamic world is, however, a historical romance, loosely based on the facts.

In ancient days, neither wisdom nor religion was found among the Arabs who dwell in tents, until the author of the Qurʾān arose and gave them a new religion from his heart.1 After [Muḥammad] wise men came who composed many books on their religious law, until there arose a great king of the Arabs whose name was al-Safāḥ [the fi rst caliph of the ʿAbbāsid dynasty who reigned from 750 to 754]. He heard that in India there were many sciences and so he ordered that a wise man be sought, fl uent in both Arabic and the language of India, who might translate one of the books of their wisdom for him. He thought that some mishap might befall the translator because pro- fane sciences were still unknown in Islam. Th ey had only the Qurʾān and wise traditions which they received from Muḥammad . . . [Al-Safāḥ] fasted . . . in the hope that the angel of dreams might appear and permit the book to be translated for him into Ara- bic. Th en in a dream he saw what he had hoped for. So he sent for a Jew who knew both languages and ordered him to translate this book, for he feared that if an Arab were to translate the book, he might die. When he saw how wonderful the book was, . . . he yearned for more knowledge of the sciences of India . . . He gave great wealth to the Jew . . . so that he might travel to the city of Arin [in India] . . . thinking “perhaps he will succeed in bringing one of their wise men to the king.” So the Jew went and indulged in many subterfuges after which, for a large sum, [Kanka,] one of the wise men of Arin, agreed to go to the king . . . Th en from this scholar, with the Jew as an Arabic-Indian interpreter, a scholar named Jacob ben Sharah [i.e., Yaʿqūb ibn Ṭāriq] translated a book containing the tables of the seven planets, . . . the arrangement of the astrological houses, knowledge of the fi xed stars, and eclipses of the luminaries. (Goldstein, Ibn al-Muthannā 147-148)

Now for the facts: there was a delegation from India to Baghdad that included scholars who brought Indian astronomy to the Muslims in the late eighth century, that is, the transmission of ideas was facilitated by the actual presence of scholars coming from a diﬀ erent culture. Yaʿqūb ibn Ṭāriq in the late eighth century produced a set of astronomical tables based on Indian traditions. Although it is now extant only in fragments (Pingree), it served as the basis for the astronomical tables of al-Khwārizmī which were inﬂ uential in Spain. Arin is a corrupt form of Ujjain, a city in India. No Jew was involved in this translation: Ibn Ezra simply assumed it to be the case since, in Spain, Jews often served as intermediaries in translations from Arabic into Latin. As Marie-Th érèse d’Alverny reports,

1 Clearly this statement is a polemic against the Muslim claim that the Qurʾān was revealed to Muḥammad by the angel, Gabriel. However, Ibn Ezra rarely makes such polemical remarks in his scientifi c works. [6] 162 B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 in twelfth-century Spain (and later), Jews assisted in the translations from Arabic into Latin according to the following procedure: a learned Jew would read the Arabic text and translate it orally word-for-word into the vernacular, e.g., Castilian, in the presence of a Christian cleric who then translated what he heard into Latin and wrote it down. Th is method is sometimes called a four-handed translation. Despite the diffi culties with the details of Ibn Ezra’s account, I would argue that he understood the “spirit” of this age of translation under the patronage of the early ʿAbbāsids. As A. I. Sabra has stressed, this translation movement was part of an “appropriation” of Greek (and to a lesser extent Indian) culture, that is, an integration of it into Islamic culture. Moreover, he has argued that this activity in early Islam was not a marginal phenomenon; rather, it was a major cultural enterprise undertaken under the protection and patronage of the caliphs and, in its intensity and scope, had no precedent either in the Middle East or elsewhere. Dimitri Gutas adds that support for this movement “cut across all lines of religious, sectarian, ethnic, tribal and linguistic demarcation. Patrons were Arabs and non-Arabs, Muslims and non- Muslims, Sunnis and Shiʿites, generals and civilians, merchants and land- owners, etc.” (Gutas 5). Perhaps the most important astronomer in al-Andalus was Azarquiel (d. 1100), a prolifi c writer on astronomical subjects, many of whose works were translated into Hebrew and Latin. He was associated with Ṣāʿid al- Andalusī (d. 1070) who wrote a history of scientifi c contributions up to his time, with a focus on Muslim Spain (Richter-Bernburg). Azarquiel composed an astronomical almanac in Arabic which was later translated into Castilian. One of his important works, On the Motion of the Fixed Stars, only survives in a Hebrew version. Moreover, the Toledan Tables, ascribed in the Middle Ages to Azarquiel, are not extant in Arabic, but the Latin versions of the twelfth century were dominant in Christian Europe north of the Pyrenees in the thirteenth century. Th e Toledan Tables were partially displaced by the Parisian Alfonsine Tables in the mid fourteenth century, although many extant copies of the Toledan Tables date from the fi fteenth century. Th e evidence for the names of the Latin translators is weak, according to Fritz S. Pedersen who produced a monumental edition of the Toledan Tables with commentary (Pedersen 15). Th e tables themselves depend primarily on al-Battānī, but some parts derive from al- Khwārizmī. Th ey are arranged for the Muslim calendar, which was not very convenient for the users who surely preferred the Christian calendar. Indeed, the earliest Latin version, the Tables of Marseilles, dated c. 1140, B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 163 [7] were arranged for the Christian calendar, as were several other versions compiled before the end of the thirteenth century. However, judging from the number of extant copies, none of them was as popular as the versions based on the Muslim calendar. Ibn al-Kammād (fl . 1115) was a Muslim astronomer who lived in Córdoba. He composed three sets of astronomical tables, none of which survives in the original Arabic. A Latin version of one set was translated by John of Dumpno in 1260 in Palermo, Sicily (Chabás and Goldstein, “Andalusian Astronomy”). More recently, a Hebrew version by Solomon Franco (perhaps from Córdoba; fl . 1370) has been identifi ed in which the author explicitly says that “I depended for most matters on al-Zīj al-Muqtabis,” that is, on the astronomical tables of Ibn al-Kammād (Vati- can, ms Heb. 498, fol. 2r; Langermann, “Two Astronomical Treatises”). Both the Latin and the Hebrew versions are arranged for the Muslim calendar, and the author of these tables was widely cited by his Muslim, Christian and Jewish successors in Spain. Of particular note is the impact of these tables on the Tables of Barcelona, originally composed in Hebrew for the king, Don Pedro el Ceremonioso of Aragón (1319-1387), and then translated into Latin and Catalan (Chabás, “Astronomía”). Don Pedro was also a patron of the Jewish astronomer, Jacob ben David Bonjorn, called in Hebrew by the nickname ha-poʿel, or ‘the [table]maker,’ whose main work in astronomy was also composed in Hebrew and then translated into Catalan and Latin (Chabás, “Th e Astronomical Tables”). Th e Latin and Hebrew versions of the tables of Ibn al-Kammād contain tables for the mean motions of the Sun, the Moon and the fi ve planets in years, months and days, in the Muslim calendar. Th ere are also tables for the “equations” (as they were called in the Middle Ages), for fi nding the true positions of the planets from their mean positions which, in turn, require a calculation of the apogee of the given planet, that is the position on the ecliptic where the planet is farthest from the Earth. In the Middle Ages it was assumed that there were seven planets all of which revolve around the Earth: Moon, Sun, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn. For Ptolemy, the sun’s apogee was fi xed with respect to the vernal equinox, the point where the ecliptic (the Sun’s apparent yearly path through the zodiac) crosses the celestial equator. In the ninth century Muslim astronomers in Baghdad argued that the solar apogee is fi xed with respect to the fi xed stars rather than with respect to the vernal equinox. Th en in the eleventh century Azarquiel found that the solar apogee also has a proper motion of 1° in about 279 Julian years, and Ibn al-Kammād modifi ed [8] 164 B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174

Azarquiel’s parameter slightly to 1° in about 290 Julian years (Chabás and Goldstein, “Andalusian Astronomy” 28). Th is motion of the solar apogee was accepted by many, but not all, astronomers in Spain (and by those who depended on their works), but not by astronomers elsewhere in the Islamic world. In some cases, followers of Ibn al-Kammād agreed with his view that this motion applied to the apogees of the fi ve planets, that is, the apogees of each of the fi ve planets was at a fi xed distance from the (moving) solar apogee. Th is motion is not included in the Toledan Tables or the Alfonsine Tables (about which more later), the most widely diff used sets of astronomical tables in the Latin West. However a Parisian astronomer of the early fourteenth century, John Vimond, included this motion of the solar apogee and applied it to the planetary apogees as well. In other words, several diff erent Iberian astronomical traditions reached Paris in the early fourteenth century; in particular, some of them were not included in the Parisian version of the Alfonsine Tables. Abraham Bar Ḥ iyya of Barcelona (d. c. 1145) was the fi rst Spanish Jew to write scientifi c treatises in Hebrew; usually he composed paraphrases rather than translations. In particular, he adapted the tables of al-Battānī to the Hebrew calendar (Millás Vallicrosa, La obra Séfer Ḥ eshbon; Gold- stein, “Astronomy in the Medieval Spanish Jewish Community”). Th e works of Bar Ḥ iyya were quite popular, and this meant that knowledge of the Ptolemaic tradition in astronomy was widely available in the Jewish community. Plato of Tivoli, who resided in Barcelona, translated the Ara- bic version of an astrological work by Ptolemy into Latin with the help of Bar Ḥ iyya (Millás Vallicrosa, Traducciones 153) and then in 1145 translated a mathematical work composed in Hebrew by Bar Ḥ iyya into Latin, probably with the assistance of the author, entitled Liber embadorum (Lévy espec. 40, 53-54).2 Bar Ḥ iyya created a scientifi c vocabulary in Hebrew, based on Arabic models, that was certainly appreciated by his successors. A similar endeavor was undertaken by Abraham Ibn Ezra who preferred to add new meanings to biblical terms (Goldstein, “Astronomy and Astrol- ogy”). Ibn Ezra also composed commentaries on various books of the Hebrew Bible, and he used these commentaries to spread scientifi c ideas to the broad community. It has recently been argued that some scientifi c works ascribed to Ibn Ezra were written by him in Latin, possibly with the help of a Christian assistant, rather than translated from Hebrew by some-

2 For another astrological work translated from Arabic into Latin by Plato of Tivoli in collaboration with Bar Ḥ iyya, see Millás Vallicrosa, Traducciones 328-339. B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 165 [9] one else (Sela 22-36; Smithuis). If true, this would be another early instance of cooperation in scientiﬁ c matters between a Jew and a Christian. Ibn Ezra also wrote extensively in Hebrew on astrology, based on traditions drawn from Arabic texts. Th ese Hebrew treatises, considered an encyclopedia of astrological lore, were later translated into Latin by Henry Bate of Mechelen/Malines in 1281 (Goldine 15; Sela and Freudenthal). So far I have focused on the intellectual debts of Jews and Christians to their Muslim predecessors in al-Andalus. Next I turn to the well-known collaboration of Jews and Christians under the patronage of Alfonso X of Castile (d. 1284), whose goal was to provide Castilian scholars engaged in studying the sciences with a working library, mainly in the Castilian language. Some texts were translated from Arabic into Castilian, others into Latin via a Castilian intermediary (Chabás and Goldstein, Alfonsine Tables 225-241). We can glean an idea of the kind of collaboration that was undertaken from the following episode. In Th e Book of the Fixed Stars, we are told that the king was involved in the revision of this treatise, ﬁ rst translated by Judah ben Moses Cohen with the help of Guillén Arremón Daspa in 1256. Th is Castilian translation was later revised in 1276 by the same Judah, another Jewish scholar (Samuel ha-Levi) and two Italians, with the active participation of the king (Chabás and Goldstein, Alfonsine Tables 234-235). In the prologue to the Castilian translation of another treatise, Th e Lap- idary, we learn of Alfonso’s personal involvement with—and dependence on—learned Jews in 1243, even before he became king:

[Alfonso] obtained [the Arabic manuscript] in Toledo from a Jew who kept it hidden, who neither wished to make use of it himself nor that any other should profi t there- from. And when he had this book in his possession, [the king] caused another Jew, who was his physician, to read it and he was called Jehuda Mosca el menor. [Th is Jew] was learned in the art of astrology, and knew and understood well both Arabic and Latin. And when through this Jew his physician, [the king] understood the value and great profi t which was in the book, he commanded him to translate it from Arabic into the Castilian language, so that men might better understand it and learn how to profi t from it. And one Garci Pérez his clerk aided in this translation. He too was learned in the art of astrology. (Procter 19)

In the course of these translations, a scientiﬁ c vocabulary had to be invented in Castilian, and this was not a simple task. In addition to translations, there was one particularly important original text composed at the court of Alfonso, Th e Alfonsine Tables of Toledo, of [10] 166 B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 which only the Castilian canons (instructions) are extant. Th e authors were two Jews, and no Christians are mentioned in the prologue other than the king who served as patron.

Judah, son of Moses, son of Mosca, and Rabbi Isaac ibn Sid say: Th e science of astrology is a subject that cannot be investigated without observations. Yet, the observations made by the experts in this discipline cannot be completed by a single man; indeed, they cannot be completed in the lifetime of one man. On the contrary, when a result is attained, it is attained through the work of many men, laboring one after another for a long time. Th e reason for this is that among the celestial motions are some that are so slow that they only complete a circuit after thousands of years. It is therefore necessary to continue making observations because, by proceeding in this way, phenomena will become apparent at one time that were not apparent at another time. We are now in our time in the ﬁ rst decade of the fourth century of the second millennium of the era of Caesar [1262-1272]. Two hundred years have passed since Azarquiel’s observations, and discrepancies have appeared in some of the positions, which he adopted, that are so obvious and manifest to the senses that no excuse can be oﬀ ered for [retaining] them. At this time there appeared the happy reign, assisted by God, the rule of the very exalted and most noble lord, King Don Alfonso, may God preserve him! Because he loved learning and appreciated it, he had instruments made, such as the armillary sphere and other devices, that are described by Ptolemy in the Almagest. And he bade us observe in the city of Toledo, one of the principal cities in Spain—may God preserve it!—in which Azarquiel made his observations. [Don Alfonso] ordered [us] to rectify and correct the divergences and disagreements that had appeared in some positions of some of the planets and in other motions. We obeyed his order as he demanded of us, reconstructing the instruments as best we could. We worked at making observations for a certain length of time and proceeded to observe the Sun throughout a complete year . . . We also observed many eclipses of the Sun and Moon. We made [some] other observations in which we had doubts but repeated them many times to resolve the doubt; we did not abandon searching and investigating anything until the way to correct that which was in need of correction became evident to us . . . We call this book, the book of the Alfonsine Tables, because it was made and compiled at the behest [of Don Alfonso], and we have divided it into 54 chapters, which follow. (Chabás and Goldstein, Alfonsine Tables 136-137)

Isaac ibn Sid, also called Rabi Çag of Toledo, was the most proliﬁ c scien- tiﬁ c collaborator of Alfonso X. Judah ben Moses ha-Cohen was a physician who, during the reign of Fernando III, Alfonso’s father, had completed a translation into Latin of Azarquiel’s Treatise on the Azafea in 1231. Under the patronage of Alfonso, he took part in the translation of several treatises from Arabic into Castilian. Th e prologue stresses the importance of observations, which in fact had little impact on the tables. In a Hebrew treatise, Isaac Israeli of Toledo (c. 1310) reports four solar and lunar eclipses by B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 167 [11]

Alfonso’s collaborators, and this is the sum total of the evidence for astronomical observational activity at the court of Alfonso (Chabás and Gold- stein, Alfonsine Tables 141-143). In particular, no speciﬁ c dated observations are mentioned in the ﬁ fty-four chapters that follow this prologue. Azar- quiel’s observations were made in 1075, which is approximately 200 years before this text was composed. Th e king ordered his astronomers to correct previous astronomical tables, but it is not entirely clear which set of tables he had in mind. In 1504, while in Tunis, Abraham Zacut wrote a lengthy history, Th e Book of Genealogies, in which he praised the tables of Alfonso:

In the year 5012 A.M. [=1252], on the last day of May, Don Alfonso began to reign. He was a lover of the sciences, in particular of astronomy. At that time the scholar, Rabbi Isaac ben Sid, ḥazzan of Toledo, prepared tables for the host of the heavens with great precision at the command of the king, and no previous tables or books on astronomy had their precision . . . And from the east to the west, in Germany, France, England, Italy, and Spain, astronomers have destroyed all their former tables and used these tables in their stead until this very day. (Chabás and Goldstein, Alfon- sine Tables 236)

Zacut was well informed since it is true that, at the time he was writing, astronomers in the countries he listed overwhelmingly depended on, and developed, Alfonsine astronomy. Poland is the only country in Christian Europe in which signifi cant astronomical activity took place that he omits. One aspect of this activity was to fi nd clever ways to make the tables more “user-friendly,” reducing the number and complexity of calculations required for determining astronomical data for a specifi c date. Th e ingenu- ity involved is truly amazing, but in no way challenged any of the fundamental assumptions underlying the tables. Th e canons in Castilian were published in 1866 and since then it has been a puzzle to see their relationship with the Alfonsine Tables in Latin that were diff used from Paris, beginning in the 1320s. It is noteworthy that in the Latin version the Jewish collaborators are not mentioned at all; the tables are simply ascribed to King Alfonso. Th ere is only one hint in Latin of Jewish participation in this project, and it occurs in a text by John of Lignères, a Parisian astronomer in the 1320s who was one of the principal collaborators in the Parisian version of the Alfonsine Tables. He wrote: “Abraham Benthegar composed canons that have not yet been translated from Hebrew, although it seems to me from what I have heard that they are the best of all, with the exception of those of al-Battānī” (Chabás and [12] 168 B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174

Goldstein, Alfonsine Tables 282). Th e reference is unclear since no one by this name is known, but it can be assumed that John of Lignères had the Alfonsine Tables in mind. Th ere are many problems in taking this Abraham to be the same as Abraham Ben Waqār, one of Alfonso’s translators, for he is not the author of any works in Hebrew and there are linguistic diffi culties with the identifi cation. John is, however, certainly indicating his admiration for tables that came to Paris from somewhere else. My colleague, José Chabás, and I have carefully considered the impact of Alfonsine treatises on the astronomers in Paris in the early fourteenth century. One connection is a description of planetary velocity tables in the Castilian canons, which is almost identical with the Latin description of such tables in a treatise by John of Lignères, composed some fi fty years later. Th e close correspondence of these texts is an indication of data coming from Spain to Paris in the 1320s or shortly before (Goldstein, Chabás and Mancha). Another set of evidence comes from the tables of John Vimond who was not part of the group that compiled the Parisian Alfon- sine Tables, although he was in Paris at the same time. Vimond’s tables have many features in common with the Parisian Alfonsine Tables, but they are mainly hidden from view by a completely diff erent presentation. Th ey also have features that distinguish them from the Parisian Alfonsine Tables, while still refl ecting Spanish traditions (Chabás and Goldstein, “Early Alfonsine Astronomy”). It has already been mentioned that Vimond, like some of his Spanish predecessors, held that the solar apogee has a proper motion, and that the planetary apogees maintain a fi xed distance from this moving solar apogee, a feature completely missing in the Parisian version of the Alfonsine Tables. Vimond, however, says nothing about his sources in the brief text that accompanies his tables. A key for understanding the early development of the Parisian Alfonsine Tables is found in the Expositio by John of Murs, another major Parisian astronomer active in the 1320s. In this text John of Murs explains the parameters and models that underlie tables he has in hand; he refers to the tables of Alfonso (“Alfonsius . . . in capite tabule motus solis”) and to the introduction to these tables (“ut invenit Alfonsius causa introductionis tabularum eius” [Chabás and Goldstein, Alfonsine Tables 279-280]). Th e Parisian Alfonsine Tables survive in hundreds of copies; they were the most popular set of astronomical tables in Europe until late in the sixteenth century. Unfortunately, there is no general survey of these manuscripts, but it has been shown that there are signifi cant diff erences among their various families (Chabás, “From Toledo to Venice”; North). José Chabás B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 169 [13] and I refer to the many versions of the Alfonsine Tables and related texts as the “Alfonsine corpus,” all of which are part of the legacy of astronomy as it was practiced at the court of Alfonso. Unlike Europe north of the Pyrenees where the Parisian Alfonsine Tables predominated in the fi fteenth century, a variety of astronomical traditions fl ourished in the Iberian Peninsula at that time. In particular, Judah Ben Verga of Lisbon (c. 1470) cites predecessors who wrote in Arabic and Hebrew, but not in Latin or the vernacular. His original astronomical tables are unrelated to the Parisian Alfonsine Tables and survive in two Hebrew manuscripts, recently identifi ed by Y. Tzvi Langermann of Bar Ilan University in Tel Aviv. Given the obligation of Muslims to pray towards Mecca fi ve times a day, fi nding the direction to Mecca from any location is a common topic in Arabic astronomy; the direction to Jerusalem, however, was rarely treated in medieval Hebrew sources. Ben Verga is an exception: in his Treatise on the Horizontal Instrument, he states the problem as that of fi nding the direction to Jerusalem from any city, and then gives Lisbon as his example. By way of contrast, Ben Verga says nothing about astronomical navigation, despite the contemporary activities of Portuguese explorers (Langermann, “Science in the Jewish Communities”; Goldstein, “Th e Astronomical Tables” and “Preliminary Remarks”). Finally, let us consider the case of Abraham Zacut (1452-1515), who was active in Salamanca and other places in Castile before the Edict of Expulsion of the Jews in 1492. Afterwards he spent time in Portugal, North Africa and then in Jerusalem. Let us fi rst dispense with the myth of Zacut’s role in the Portuguese voyages of discovery. Th e key support for this claim comes from Gaspar Correia, who mentions Zacut’s name a few times in his historical account of the age of discoveries, written long after the time when Zacut was in Portugal. Correia’s date of birth is not known, but he died c. 1561. He wrote an eight-volume work, Lendas da Índia, published in Lisbon (1858-1866). In this book he claims that before spon- soring the voyage that led to the discovery of India, King Manuel consulted Zacut on weather and storms occurring during long-distance navigation, and that Zacut gave instructions to pilots concerning the use of astronomical instruments at sea. Without entering into a discussion of Correia’s general reliability, his account of Zacut giving instructions to navigators at sea seems dubious. Zacut had lived in Salamanca and later in Extremadura—far from the sea. I know of no evidence suggesting that Zacut had even been near the sea or on board a ship prior to his arrival in Portugal. Moreover, he did not discuss astronomical instruments in any of [14] 170 B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 his known works, and did not mention the application of astronomy to problems of navigation (Chabás and Goldstein, Astronomy in the Iberian Peninsula 9-11). So, while the possibility exists that there was some interaction between Zacut and navigators and explorers, better information is needed from a source that is closer in time to Zacut’s sojourn in Portugal than what is provided by Correia. Luís Albuquerque, a leading Portuguese historian of astronomical navigation, considered Correia’s account of Zacut teaching the use of nautical instruments to Portuguese pilots as suspect: “Correia can be forgiven for this error, because he wrote his text in India, and in the passage he refers to a subject with which he was not familiar, and of which he could not be well informed, because he did not have access to archives or to anyone who could inform him better” (Albuquer- que 144, translated in Chabás and Goldstein, Abraham Zacut 9, n. 8). In astronomy Zacut is best known for the Almanach Perpetuum, published in Leiria, Portugal, in 1496, with versions in Latin and Castilian. Although this text is based on Zacut’s Hebrew treatise, ha-Ḥ ibbur ha-gadol (Th e Great Composition), the canons in Latin and Castilian are entirely different from those in Hebrew, and there are other diff erences in the tables themselves. Zacut’s canons in Hebrew are clearly addressed to a Jewish audience and he refers to many Jewish astronomers who preceded him. Th e canons in the Latin and Castilian versions are not translations from Hebrew, and only one Jewish astronomer is mentioned in them. A dedication to an unnamed bishop of Salamanca in the Latin version of the Alma- nach Perpetuum has been the basis for much speculation. But the fact of the matter is that this dedication was taken almost verbatim from a dedication by Johannes Regiomontanus to a Hungarian archbishop in a work that was published posthumously in Augsburg in 1490. Th e main change was to replace Regiomontanus’ Vienna by Salamanca. No such dedication is found in the Hebrew version, and there is no reason to believe that Zacut had anything to do with it. Indeed, in his later works Zacut never referred to the Latin version of his Ḥ ibbur. Th e text of this dedication has been the sole support for the claim that Zacut was either a student or a teacher at the University of Salamanca, a claim that must now be abandoned (Chabás and Goldstein, Abraham Zacut 90-95). For the purposes of this essay, it is important to note that Zacut does not acknowledge any of his contemporaries in Salamanca although there is considerable indirect evidence for interactions between them. Zacut depended on the Parisian version of the Alfonsine Tables which had been absent in Spain, despite their widespread diff usion north of the Pyrenees, B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 171 [15] until the tables arrived in Salamanca with Nicolaus Polonius, the fi rst incumbent of the chair of astronomy at the University of Salamanca, who came from Poland c. 1460 (Chabás and Goldstein, Abraham Zacut 20-21; see also Chabás, “Astronomy in Salamanca”). Th e clearest evidence of interaction comes from a Castilian translation of the canons to Zacut’s Ḥ ibbur, completed by Juan de Salaya in 1481, three years after Zacut had composed them in Hebrew. In the colophon, Juan de Salaya, who held the chair of astronomy at the University of Salamanca from 1464 to 1469, tells us that Zacut helped him in translating the Hebrew text (Cantera Burgos 236). I see no alternative to the assumption that the assistance came in the form of face-to-face conversations. Recently, in examining a set of astronomical tables in Hebrew that Zacut composed in Jerusalem in 1513, I found evidence of the tables of Nicolaus de Heybech of Erfurt who lived c. 1400 (New York, Jewish Th eo- logical Seminary of America, ms 2574, fols. 8b-9b; Chabás and Goldstein, “Nicholaus de Heybech”; Goldstein and Chabás, “Transmission of Com- putational Methods”). Th ese tables, compiled in Latin, have many distinc- tive characteristics, and no Hebrew version of them is known. Although there is no trace of them in his Ḥ ibbur, Zacut used them (without indicating his source) long after he had left Spain. Th e solution to this puzzle, as suggested to me by José Chabás, seems to be that Heybech’s tables were available in Salamanca, and they were incorporated in an anonymous Latin text, the Tabule verifi cate for Salamanca, whose epoch is 1461 (Chabás and Goldstein, Abraham Zacut 28). Zacut’s astronomical works were regularly consulted by his Christian neighbors in Salamanca, but their indebtedness to him was rarely acknowl- edged. For example, Diego de Torres, who held the chair of astronomy at the University of Salamanca in the 1480s, depended on Zacut’s tables for his computations, but does not mention Zacut in his work (Chabás and Goldstein, Abraham Zacut 165-166). Another puzzle concerns Zacut’s relation with Gonzalo de Vivero, bishop of Salamanca (d. 1480). Th e only evidence (if we disregard conjectures by modern scholars) comes from the testament of the bishop in which he ordered that “the Jew Abraham, astrologer” be given a modest amount of money, and that there be bound in a single volume to be put in his library “the notebooks which are in Romance (i.e., Castilian) and written by this Jew . . . in order to understand better the tables by this Jew” (Chabás and Goldstein, Abraham Zacut 7-8, 95; Cantera Burgos 76). It is reasonable to assume that this Jew is Abraham Zacut (there is no alternative candidate), but the relationship between him [16] 172 B. R. Goldstein / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 159-174 and the bishop is otherwise unknown. It is hard to avoid the conclusion that in the years leading up to the Expulsion, it was not considered pru- dent for Christian or Jewish scholars to discuss their intellectual interactions openly. Although it has long been known that the study of astronomy in Spain by Muslims, Jews and Christians had a great impact on astronomers north of the Pyrenees, the interactions of scholars from these various religious communities in Spain has been relatively neglected. Astronomy was a neutral meeting ground for scholars who were sharply divided on religious questions. Th e practice of scholarly meetings by participants with diff erent religious commitments began in Baghdad in the ninth and tenth centuries and, as al-Kindī (d. c. 870) argued: “For the seeker of truth nothing takes precedence over the truth, and there is no disparagement of the truth, nor belittling either of him who speaks it or of him who conveys it” (Gutas 158-159). However, later in the Middle Ages such encounters rarely took place except in the Iberian Peninsula, where it can be seen as a signifi cant cultural phenomenon over a long period of time.

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———. “Two Astronomical Treatises by Solomon Franco.” Kiryat Sefer 59 (1984): 637-38. Lapidus, Ira M. A History of Islamic Societies. 2nd edn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Lévy, Tony. “Les débuts de la littérature mathématique hébraïque: la géométrie d’Abraham bar Ḥ iyya (XIXIIe siècle).” Micrologos 9 (2001): 35-64. Millás Vallicrosa, José María, ed. La obra Séfer Ḥ eshbón mahlekot ha-kokabim (Libro del cálculo de los movimientos de los astros). By Abraham bar Ḥ iyya Savasorda. Biblioteca de Autores Barceloneses. Barcelona: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científi cas, Instituto Arias Montano, 1959. ———. Las traducciones orientales en los manuscritos de la Biblioteca Catedral de Toledo. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científi cas, Instituto Arias Montano, 1942. Millás Vendrell, Eduardo. El comentario de Ibn al-Muthannā a las tablas astronómicas de al- Jwārizmī: Estudio y edición crítica del texto latino, en la versión de Hugo Sanctallensis. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científi cas, Asociación para la Historia de la Ciencia Española, 1963. Nallino, Carlo Alfonso. Al-Battānī sive Albatenii Opus astronomicum. 3 vols. Publicazioni del Reale Osservatorio di Brera in Milano 40.1-3. Mediolani Insubrum: Prostat apud U. Hoeplium, 1899-1907. Neugebauer, Otto. Th e Astronomical Tables of al-Khwārizmī. Historisk-fi losofi ske skrifter 4.2. Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1962. North, John D. “Th e Alfonsine Tables in England.” In PRISMATA: naturwissenschaftsge- schichtliche Studien: Festschrift für Willy Hartner. Eds. Yasukatsu Maeyama and Walter G. Saltzer. Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1977. 269-301. Pedersen, Fritz Saaby. Th e Toledan Tables: A Review of the Manuscripts and the Textual Ver- sions. Historisk-fi losofi ske skrifter 24. Copenhagen: Kongelige Danske Videnskaber- nes Selskab, Commission agent C. A. Reitzels Forlag, 2002. Pingree, David. “Th e Fragments of the Works of Yaʿqūb ibn Ṭāriq.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 27 (1968): 97-125. Procter, Evelyn S. “Th e Scientifi c Works at the Court of Alfonso X of Castille: Th e King and his Collaborators.” Modern Language Review 40 (1945): 12-29. Richter-Bernburg, Lutz. “Ṣāʿid, the Toledan Tables, and Andalusī Science.” Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences 500 (1987): 373-401. Sabra, Abdelhamid I. “Th e Appropriation and Subsequent Naturalization of Greek Science in Medieval Islam.” History of Science 25 (1987): 223-243. Samsó, Julio. Las ciencias de los antiguos en al-Andalus. Colección al-Andalus 7, Colecciones MAPFRE 1492. Madrid: MAPFRE, 1992. Sela, Shlomo. Abraham Ibn Ezra and the Rise of Medieval Hebrew Science. Brill’s Series in Jewish Studies 32. Leiden: Brill, 2003. ——— and Gad Freudenthal. “Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Scholarly Writings: A Chronological Listing.” Aleph 6 (2006): 13-55. Smithuis, Renate. “Abraham Ibn Ezra’s Astrological Works in Hebrew and Latin: New Discoveries and Exhaustive Listing.” Aleph 6 (2006): 239-338. Suter, Heinrich. Die astronomischen Tafeln des Muhammaḍ ibn Mūsā al-Khwārizmī in der Bearbeitung des Maslama ibn Ahmeḍ al-Madjrītị̄ und der latein. Uebersetzung des Athel- hard von Bath. D. Kgl. danske vidensk. selsk. Skrifter. 7. raekke, historisk og fi losofi sk, afd. III. 1. Copenhagen: A. F. Høst & søn, 1914. Medieval Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture Encounters in Confluence and Dialogue Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 brill.nl/me

Alfonso X “Th e Wise”: Th e Last Almohad Caliph?

Maribel Fierro Centro de Ciencias Humanas y Sociales Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientíﬁ cas, 28037 Madrid, Spain e-mail: maribel.ﬁ [email protected]

Abstract When dealing with the proliﬁ c intellectual output during the reign of Alfonso X, known to be indebted to Arabic sources, hardly any reference is made to the Almohad context. It is particularly striking that Almohad culture is even ignored when referring to the inﬂ uence of Averroism. It was in fact the Almohad caliphs who encouraged the development of Aris- totelian philosophy, which interest in philosophy and knowledge formed part of the “sapientialist” concept of the Almohad caliphate itself. Th e present essay discusses this often-disregarded “sapientialism,” insisting on its connection with Alfonso X, continuing the line of inquiry begun by Ana M. Montero. Th is study describes what was involved in the political and cultural project of the Almohads, in order to show the parallels with the political and cultural project of Alfonso X.

Keywords Almohads, political and cultural project, Alfonso X, sapientialism, knowledge, cultural transfer

Following the line which some have called of the Banū Codera (Marín, “Arabistas en España”; Monroe), traditional Spanish Arabism has paid little attention to the Almoravid and Almohad periods, for it viewed the North African Berber empires as a foreign domination characterized by religious fanaticism, which brought to an end the culture, supposedly largely indigenous, which ﬂ ourished in the Iberian Peninsula under the Umayyads and the tāʾifa kings.1 Th e degree to which the indigenous

1 A ﬁ rst version of this paper was presented at the colloquium Passages. Déplacements des hommes, circulation des textes et identités dans l’Occident médiéval, organized by J. Duclos and P. Henriet at Bordeaux University on February 2-3, 2007. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are mine. English translation of the Spanish original of this essay

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 [20] 176 M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 culture—Hispano-Roman and Visigoth, as well as Christian—survived in al-Andalus varies according to individual interpretation, but almost exclusive preference has been given to the study of the early centuries of Andalusi history. Th ese centuries, considered to be an age of splendor and religious coexistence (Menocal), were more easily accepted when it came to the writing of the national history of Spain (Al-Andalus/España). It was thought to be more diffi cult to do the same with the political and cultural processes that took place under the Almoravids and the Almohads. Naturally there were exceptions to the lack of scholarly enthusiasm for the history of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, some of which are very noteworthy, such as the studies carried out by the eponym of the Banū Codera, Francisco Codera y Zaidín, and later by Ambrosio Huici Miranda, whose work is becoming ever more highly valued (Marín, La cocina), as well as the work by Jacinto Bosch Vilá. Figures such as Ibn Quzmān, Ibn Ṭufayl, Muḥyī ʾl-dīn Ibn ʿArabī or Ibn Rushd (Averroes), living under the Almoravids and the Almohads, have been the object of investigation, but generally little attention was paid to explain their lives and works within the framework of the Almoravid and Almohad political and cultural contexts. In recent years more interest has been given to this line of inquiry. Th ere have been a growing number of studies, as shown by Volume 8.2 of the Historia de España Ramón Menéndez Pidal (Viguera Molins), and its accompanying bibliography, and other collected studies that have appeared subsequently (Los almohades: Problemas y perspectivas; Averroès et l’averroïsme, XIIe-XV e siècle). Mistrust of a period seen as alien and fanatical has left a legacy of general ignorance, and as a result certain striking parallels with the political and cultural processes in the Christian world of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries have gone unnoticed. It is true that the debt the prolifi c intellectual output during the reign of Alfonso X owes to Arabic sources has been generally recognized, with extreme points of view ranging from a radical reluctance to acknowledge the debt, to a constant harking back to Anda- lusi precedents, as in the case of the studies by Francisco Márquez Vil- lanueva.2 Even in the latter case, however, hardly a reference is made to the was made with the help of Jeremy Rogers, with fi nancial support of the research project HUM2006-04475/FILO, coordinated by Delfi na Serrano. I am very grateful to Ivy Corfi s for her careful editing of this paper. 2 See Gómez Redondo, where the presentation of the intellectual production during the times of Alfonso X obscures its indebtedness to Arabic sources. On the other hand, see Burns: “A major component of [Alfonso X’s] work, indeed the indispensable tool, M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 177 [21]

Almohad context, referring rather to the “cultural” precedent of the Umayyad caliphate. Th is is particularly striking because Almohad culture is ignored even when referring to the infl uence of Averroism, which is generally well accepted in Western Christian historiography. Th e disregard for the Almo- had context seems to be symptomatic of the ignorance mentioned above, for the intellectual work of Averroes can only be explained within the framework of the cultural and religious policies promoted by the Almohad caliphs, as Dominique Urvoy’s scholarly work has clearly shown. It was in fact the Almohad caliphs who encouraged the development of Aristotelian philosophy, commissioning and fi nancing the philosophical, medical and juridical work of Averroes; and this encouragement formed part of the “sapientialist” concept of the Almohad caliphate itself. It is this often- disregarded “sapientialism” that I wish to discuss, to establish its connection with the work of Alfonso X. Th e connection has already been made in a recent study by Ana M. Montero, in which she analyzes passages of the General Estoria and the Setenario to a work written under the patronage of the Almohad caliphs. Of particular note are the passages that describe the human eff ort to achieve divine knowledge through the contemplation of nature and the force of reason. Th e Muslim work to which these passages have obvious parallels is Ibn Ṭufayl’s Ḥ ayy b. Yaqzāṇ , or Th e Self- Taught Philosopher. In this essay I shall explain what was involved in the political and cultural project of the Almohads and examine the parallels to Alfonso X’s political and cultural project.

Th e Almohad Political and Cultural Project Th e Almohad political and cultural project may be outlined as follows:3

a) A theocratic government founded by a quasi-prophetic ﬁ gure, Ibn Tūmart, and carried on by his successors, the caliphs of the Muʾminid dynasty. Th e Almohad caliph is the vicar of God on earth who promotes and guarantees all knowledge. b) Th e creation of new religious and political elites, educated in the Almohad doctrine under the direct control of the caliph. was intensive further absorption of Islamic culture by translation, adaptation, and inﬂ u- ences” (6). 3 What follows is an extract from my forthcoming monograph Rethinking Islam in the Muslim West: Almohad Religious and Cultural Policies. [22] 178 M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198

c) Legislative uniﬁ cation, political and administrative centralization and reforms of weights and measures. d) Th e Almohad caliphs’ encouragement of encyclopedic knowledge. Development of philosophy, natural sciences and magical and Kab- balistic knowledge. e) An interest in extending Almohad doctrine to the common people: use of the Berber language, the teaching of Arabic and the fostering of the production of educational works.

Naturally, this outline does not include the variations and alterations that these religious and cultural policies underwent during the history of the Almohad caliphate, due to long-standing resistance from the religious establishment; but the outline does refl ect the principal points. I will consider each of them individually. a) A theocratic government founded by a quasi-prophetic fi gure, Ibn Tūmart, and carried on by his successors, the caliphs of the Muʾminid dynasty. Th e Almohad caliph is the vicar of God on earth who promotes and guarantees all knowledge. Th e doctrine relating to the Sunni or orthodox caliphate held that the caliph, the political and religious leader of the Muslim community, was the vicar of the Prophet of God. In this way, although the caliph was considered the central fi gure to oversee that the community followed the correct path to salvation, his role was basically limited to ensuring compliance with the Prophet Muḥammad’s message, which had been set down in the Qurʾān and in the Tradition of the Prophet—that is, in the narration of the deeds and words of Muḥammad, the interpretation of which was entrusted to the ʿulamāʾ, who were specialists in religious knowledge, especially of the law. Th us the legacy of the Prophet was divided between the caliph and the scholars, with the latter especially responsible for the interpretation and implementation of this legacy. Th e Shiʿites, on the other hand, saw the caliph not as the vicar of the Prophet but of God himself. Th ey attributed to him qualities that the Sunnis tended to restrict to prophets, such as supernatural knowledge, “impeccability” and the ability to perform miracles. For the Shiʿites this was possible since only a direct descendant of the Prophet Muḥammad could be a caliph: genealogy assured the transmission of a special closeness M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 179 [23] to God or sainthood; the caliph was also walī Allāh, or ‘the friend of God’ (Crone). Th e Almohads were not Shiʿites in the strictest sense of the word, although their doctrine on the imamate shows infl uence of Shiʿite models, such as Ismāʿīlism and the Fatimid caliphate (Fierro, “Le mahdī”). Th e origins of the Almohad movement go back to a quasi-prophetic fi gure, considered to be impeccable or infallible: this was the Masmūdạ Berber Ibn Tūmart, who was recognized by his fellow tribesmen, as well as by disciples coming from diff erent Berber tribes, as the mahdī (García- Arenal). Mahdī in Arabic means ‘the rightly guided one’ and is a term that Sunni doctrine applies to an eschatological fi gure destined to appear at the end of time to lead the Muslim community back to the state of religious perfection that it enjoyed under the rule of the Prophet Muḥammad. Closely connected to this eschatological meaning, the term has been applied to diff erent historical fi gures who claimed to be political and religious reformers. By going against the mainstream, they presented themselves as mahdīs, thus seeking to legitimize their break with the existing consensus; they could present a new way of doing things—always presented as a retour aux sources to the times of the Prophet Muḥammad— precisely because they were quasi-prophetic characters, endowed with special powers and infallibility. Ibn Tūmart died without an heir and was succeeded by one of his disciples, the Zanāta Berber ʿAbd al-Muʾmin, and all the Almohad caliphs were his descendants. ʿAbd al-Muʾmin adopted an Arabic genealogy when he took the title of caliph. On his father’s side, he claimed descent from the tribe of Qays, northern Arabs, one of the branches of which was the tribe of the Prophet, Quraysh; to another branch of the tribe belonged Khālid b. Sinān, the only pre-Islamic prophet of Arabic origin recognized by Islam. On his mother’s side he claimed to be descended from the Prophet Muḥammad; among the Berbers, matrilineal descen- dance was considered more important than patrilineal (Fierro, “Gene- alogías”). In addition to his genealogical legitimacy, ʿAbd al-Muʾmin was said to be endowed with special qualities: he had a special “light” which made him a “lamp” that illuminated the Almohads (Brett). Th ese special qualities made him deserve God’s delegation or caliphate. His rule was assimilated to the Divine Disposition or command, amr Allāh, mentioned in the Qurʾān, so that obeying him was the same as obeying God (Fricaud, “Origine”; Vega et al., El mensaje). Unlike the case of the founder of the movement, Ibn Tūmart, impeccability was not one of the attributes of the [24] 180 M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198

Almohad caliphs, even though the latter do appear as the fi nal judges in all matters, including religion, since salvation depends on obedience to them. Th ey had no rival to compete with them in determining what was right from a religious point of view (Marín, “El califa almohade”; ʿAzzāwī). Th is brings us to the second point, the religious and political elites. b) Th e creation of new religious and political elites, educated in the Almohad doctrine under the direct control of the caliph. As already mentioned, the Sunni caliph shared religious knowledge with the ʿulamāʾ, whose training and propagation were not his responsibility. Th e scholars, indeed, received their instruction as informal study, with teachers they themselves chose. Th us they developed the necessary capacity to interpret Revelation or identify models to follow, as established by previous generations of scholars. When they received a salary, it principally was paid from pious bequests and, to a lesser extent, dependent on political power (Fierro, “Th e Case of the Islamic West”; García Sanjuán). Th e Shiʿite caliph, in contrast, was the depositary of religious knowledge received directly from God, so that under his government there was no place for ʿulamāʾ in the Sunni sense—that is, for scholars who through their eff orts reached personal interpretations of Revelation. Th ere were only propagandists, duʿāt, or missionaries charged with the transmission of the movement’s doctrine, which emanated directly from the imām and which he, and he alone, guaranteed (Halm). In principle, this was the solution adopted by the Almohad caliphs not only due to the Shiʿite infl uence underlying the movement, but also because it solved a pressing problem: how to impose the new Almohad doctrines in the face of opposition from the existing religious elites. In fact, the adoption of the Shiʿite formula allowed the caliph to control directly the training and mission of the religious elite, whose salaries depended on him. Th e recruitment of young men, from inside and outside the ranks of the movement’s followers, was organized; they received specialized training according to the role that they would assume, which always included the memorization of the professions of faith attributed to Ibn Tūmart. Th e extraordinarily widespread diff usion of these professions of faith is evident in their early translation into Latin by Marco de Toledo (d’Alverny and Vajda). Th e Almohad religious elite was called talabạ , or ‘students,’ and fell into two main groups: the talabạ who accompanied the Almohad caliph on his journeys—talabaṭ al-haḍ ar—̣ and the talabạ who held diff erent political and religious functions in the territory under Almohad control M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 181 [25] and generally accompanied political and military dignitaries. As far as the former, which included physicians, philosophers and theologians, the caliph met with them to suggest topics of discussion, which were often related to theological and metaphysical matters (Fricaud, “Les talabạ ” and “Le place”). c) Legislative unifi cation, political and administrative centralization and reforms of weights and measures. One of the fi rst measures taken by the Almohad caliphs was to attempt to end the confl icting views that existed in the fi eld of law. To understand this measure, it is necessary to explain how the Sunni legal system worked. Th e legal sources were the Qurʾān and the hadītḥ , the Tradition of the Prophet. Since the legal material contained in these sources is not exhaustive and sometimes ambiguous, the scholars specializing in law, the fuqahāʾ, or ‘jurists,’ interpreted legal doctrine. Th is interpretation implied the use of reason, subject to a series of regulatory norms that varied according to legal schools. Although there were a variety of legal schools, only four were recognized as orthodox, and each developed diff ering legal doctrines. Th is legal pluralism was accepted by Sunni Islam, in which the process of legal codifi cation had no place in pre-modern times (Bearman, Peters and Vogel). In Shiʿite Islam, on the other hand, pluralism is not in principle permitted, given the role of the imām as the source of knowledge and truth, which ensures the rightness of the doctrine at any point in time. In other words, if the Shiʿites were to take power and their perfect and infallible imām were to govern directly, then there could only be one correct legal doctrine: that which came from him.4 Th e Almohad system also sought to eliminate the divergence of legal opinions, to establish the truth in matters of religion and in the fi eld of law (Fierro, “Legal Policies”). Given the tendency of the Almohad movement towards an increasingly Sunni point of view, there are only traces of any attempt on the part of the fi rst Almohad caliphs to produce a legal “codifi cation” that would eliminate confl icting versions and impose the “Almo- had” interpretation of the revealed law. What can clearly be seen from the documentation available is that various methods were implemented to reduce the variety of diff ering laws. Th ey encouraged the composition of works that collected prophetic traditions from more than one of the

4 Regarding the practice in the Shiʿite Fatimid caliphate, see Hamdani. On the practice of Shiʿites living in Sunni polities, see Stewart. [26] 182 M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 canonical compilations. Such prophetic traditions enjoyed a greater degree of “truth” and their legal content was therefore more reliable than that of other traditions (Fierro, “Revolución y tradición”). Since there could only be one revealed Truth, books were also encouraged to analyze the reasoning by which diff erent opinions were reached. A work which responds to such an eff ort to reduce legal discrepancies is Averroes’ Bidāyat al-mujtahid wa-nihāyat al-muqtasiḍ , meaning ‘Th e beginning for those who strive toward a personal judgement and the end for those who content themselves with received knowledge.’ Th is work brings together the diff erent doctrines of all orthodox legal schools, not only those of the Malikite school, which had been dominant until that time in western Islam. Indica- tions are given as to the legal proof on which the doctrines are based, so that the jurist consulting the work would receive a solid doctrinal foundation from which to make a decision. In this book of legal methodology, Averroes announced his intention to produce a second book dedicated to legal regulation, but if he ever wrote it, it has not survived. Had he done so, such a work of positive law would have served as a legal code for the Almohad territory, for let us not forget that Averroes’ intellectual output was wholly fi nanced by the Almohad caliphs, to whose talabạ he must have belonged and whom he served as judge.5 In addition to these attempts at legislative unifi cation and codifi cation, the Almohad caliphs also carried out an extraordinary process of political and administrative centralization, proof of which is given by the numerous “letters” sent out by the Almohad chancellery (al-ʿAllaoui and Buresi) and is refl ected in the Almohad army’s striking capacity for mobilization, as has recently been pointed out by Francisco García-Fitz in his study of the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa. Th e Almohad caliphs also undertook a profound monetary reform, which was very clearly and visibly refl ected in the adoption of square coins, as well as in the establishment of new units of weight (Vega et al., “La doctrina almohade”; Fontenla). d) Th e Almohad caliphs’ encouragement of encyclopedic knowledge. Development of philosophy, natural sciences and magical and Kabbalistic knowledge. In the Almohad period we witness an extraordinary development in the production of works seeking not only to gather together everything that was known at the time about a particular discipline, but also to establish

5 On the relationship between Averroes and the Almohads, see Stroumsa; Geoff roy; and Fricaud (“Le problème”). M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 183 [27] the general principles of those disciplines, just as Averroes had done in his legal work, the Bidāyat. In this way, it was clear that the object was to make available works that would cause their readers to think, by giving them the foundations on which the diff erent sciences were built. We fi nd works of this type in most disciplines. In the fi eld of Islamic religious sciences, works were written on Qurʾānic exegesis and the Tradition of the Prophet (such as, the Tafsīr of al-Qurtubī,̣ the hadītḥ works of Ibn al-Qatṭ ān,̣ al-Suhaylī and Ibn al-Kharrāt),̣ as well as grammar and lexicography (such as, al-Qawānīn fī ʿilm al-ʿarabiyya by al-Shalawbīnī) and adab (such as, the Kitāb alif bāʾ by al-Balawī). In the realm of the “ancient sciences,” works were produced on medicine (the Kulliyyāt of Averroes and the Kitāb al-taysīr of Abū Marwān Ibn Zuhr), botany (the Kitāb al-jāmiʿ of Ibn al-Baytar),̣ astronomy (al-Bitrūjī),̣ alchemy (Risālat shudhūr al-dhahab fī ʿilm sinạ̄ ʿat al-kīmiyāʾ by Ibn Arfaʿ Raʾsa-hu), agriculture (Kitāb al-muqniʿ fī ʾl-fi lāhạ by Ibn al-ʿAwwām), logic (Ibn Tumlūs)̣ and philosophy (Kanz al-ʿulūm by Ibn Tūmart al-Andalusī, in addition to Averroes’ work).6 Th ere is no need to expand further on the fact that the Almohad period saw a fl ourishing of philosophy in al-Andalus. Th e entire philosophical work of Averroes was composed under the patronage of the Almohad caliphs, who had encouraged him to comment on Aristotle in order to make the works more understandable; the intended audience must have been the talabạ . What is less well known is that, also under the Almohads, there was an extraordinary development of knowledge regarding magical and Kabbalistic matters. Th e magical treatise considered as a standard in the Islamic world, the work of the North African Aḥmad al-Būnī, was composed precisely at this time (Canteins). Th e correspondence between letters and reality, as well as their symbolic value, had already been developed in al-Andalus by the mystic and philosopher Ibn Masarra, whose work was brought to light in Almohad times (Guerrero and Garrido). Th is can be seen in the quotations included in the texts from the famous mystic Muḥyī ʾl-dīn Ibn ʿArabī, whose education had also taken place in the Almohad period, and whose mystical writings likewise refl ect tendencies common to Almohad intellectual culture: encyclopedic knowledge and the establishment of basic principles (Addas; Chodkiewicz). In fact, it was from the twelfth century onward, and especially in the thirteenth, that

6 I deal with this issue in more detail in my forthcoming book Rethinking Islam in the Muslim West. For books written during the Almohad period, see Fierro (“Revolución y tradición”); Forcada; Urvoy; and especially al-Manūnī. [28] 184 M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198

Sufi sm became permanently established in the Islamic West, with hagio- graphic literature appearing for the fi rst time in al-Andalus (Fierro, “Revo- lución y tradición” 158-160). All of this extraordinary scientifi c labor (together with what we shall see in the following section) was based on the doctrine of Ibn Tūmart, founder of the Almohad movement. He composed a book which is known by the title of its fi rst treatise, Aʾazz mā yutlaḅ , or Th e Most Precious Quest, according to which the highest goal after which men should strive is knowledge, al-ʿilm (Ibn Tūmart; Nagel; Griff el). Knowledge allows us to understand this world, and by observing and understanding what is created, man can continue to ascend towards the Creator. Th is possibility was proposed in one of the most representative works of the Almohad period, the Ḥ ayy b. Yaqzāṇ , or Th e Self-taught Philosopher, of Ibn Tufayḷ (Conrad). From the outset, the quest for knowledge characterized the Almohad movement to such an extent that the oldest source referring to the movement defi nes it as madhhab fi kr, or ‘a school of (rational) thought,’ showing that this quest was not restricted to memorizing and preserving what was already established, but that it centered on understanding and rational speculation (Gabrieli). It is no coincidence that the Historia Arabum of Don Rodrigo Ximénez de Rada presents Ibn Tūmart as an astrologer and practitioner of the physical-natural sciences. Another clear sign of the importance of the quest for knowledge is that in the Almohad period there was an extraordinary boom in the composition of bibliographical compilations, in which scholars, especially those specializing in religious science, listed the works that they had studied and with whom they had studied them. Th ese bibliographical lists served as “certifi cates,” vouching for the scientifi c credentials of those who had compiled them, and thus guaranteed that they in turn could act as teachers for succeeding generations. In this way the acquisition and transmission of knowledge acquired a greater degree of formality than in previous periods (Fórneas).7 e) An interest in extending the Almohad doctrine to the common people: use of the Berber language, encouragement of the teaching of Arabic and the fostering of the production of educational works. Th e Almohad movement refl ected its Berber origins through basic doctrinal texts in that language. We are still unclear as to the linguistic policy of

7 Makdisi has seen the educational developments of the Islamic world from the eleventh century onwards as a possible infl uence in the foundation of European universities. M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 185 [29] the Almohad caliphs and the changes it underwent, but it is obvious that the writing of texts in Berber fl ourished under their rule. Th ere are those who have seen this linguistic policy, catering to the needs of a non- Arabic-speaking population, as a precedent that served to justify the translation of Muslim religious texts into Romance for the use of the Mudejars (Wiegers). On the other hand, the incorporation of the Arab tribes—the Banū Hilāl and the Banū Sulaym that had moved into North Africa from Egypt—into the Almohad ranks set in motion a process of Arabization in the central and far Maghreb, where hitherto the spread of the Arabic language had been limited (Lévy). Th e Almohad caliphs, who concealed their Berber origins by giving themselves an Arabic genealogy to legitimize their government, likewise fostered the Arabization of the religious elites, many of whom were recruited from the Berber-speaking population. Works were composed with a view to helping the elite learn and master the language. According to the Encyclopaedia of Islam (s.v. al-Djazūlī), this is the case of the famous al-Muqaddima by al-Djazūlī. Th e composition of educational works was not limited to the subject of grammar. Th ey would be found in practically all the scientifi c disciplines. Th e books summarize the principles of each discipline in verse form to make it easier to memorize. Didactic poems were thus composed to help learn Qurʾānic texts (al-Shātibī),̣ the Tradition of the Prophet (al-Qurtubī),̣ and mathematics (Ibn al-Yāsmīn), for example (Fierro, “Teaching of the Five Pillars of Islam”).

At the personal insistence of the caliph, head of the Almohad talabạ , Almohad policies made the development and promotion of knowledge a priority. Th is project gradually weakened due to internal tensions between the diﬀ erent Almohad hierarchies as well as the opposition of the old elites who rejected the tutelage of the caliphs. Th e Almohad doctrine was publicly renounced by the caliph al-Maʾmūn (r. 624/1227-629/1232), and while other caliphs still continued to accept it, there soon began a process of “de-Almohadization” not only of society, but also of the sources dealing with the Almohad period.8

8 Fricaud (“Les talabạ ”) was the ﬁ rst to use this expression of “de-Almohadization.” [30] 186 M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198

Parallels between the Political and Cultural Program of the Almohads and that of King Alfonso X Th e question arises as to the inﬂ uence of the Almohad political and cultural program on other regions of the Islamic world. Like Averroism, was it adopted in Latin Christendom but largely ignored in Islam? It is interesting that striking parallels may be found not so much in the East as in Christian Spain. Indeed, an apt description of the ﬁ rst Almohad caliphs’ intentions can be found in the works of Don Juan Manuel, when he comments on the intellectual and cultural mindset of his uncle, King Alfonso X. In the Libro de la caza he writes:

Non podria dezir ningun omne quanto bien este noble rey ﬁ zo sennalada mente en acresçentar et alunbrar el saber [No one would be able to describe how much this noble king markedly did to increase and enlighten knowledge]. (1: 520)

Th en from the Crónica abreviada:

Ca morava en algunos logares vn anno e dos e mas e aun, segunt dizen los que viuian a la su merced, que fablauan con el los que querian e quando el queria, e ansi auia espacio de estudiar en lo quel queria fazer para si mismo, e avn para veer e esterminar las cosas de los saberes quel mandaua ordenar a los maestros e a los sabios que traya para esto en su corte. [Since he dwelt in some places a year or two or even more, according to those who lived under his favor, those who wished to speak to him did so and when he wished it, and thus he had time to study what he wished to do himself, and even see and determine the ﬁ elds of knowledge that he would order to be assigned to the mas- ters and scholars that he gathered in his court for that purpose.] (2: 575-576)

For each of the headings in the previous section, we can ﬁ nd the following parallels in the political and cultural project of Alfonso X: a) Government by a Rey Sabio—a wise king. Alfonso X was the son of a “saintly” king, Fernando III, and through his mother Beatrice of Swabia, descended from two emperors, Frederick I and Isaac I Komnenos, and he aspired to the fecho del imperio, or ‘aﬀ air of the empire’ (Estepa; Rodríguez López). As stated in the Libro de los cien capí- tulos and the Espéculo, the king saw himself as “the seneschal of God, who holds His place and His power on earth” and “the king holds the place of our Lord God on earth” (quoted in Maravall 225-226). Contemporary sources tell us that the king “ever since he came into this world, loved and embraced the sciences” [“siempre desque fue en este mundo amó et allegó M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 187 [31] a sí las sciencias”], being a “scrutiniser of sciences, a seeker of doctrines and learning” [“escodriñador de sciencias, requeridor de doctrinas e de enseñamientos”] (Rucquoi 79). Th e king is the “undisputed focus of knowledge and the intellectual motor of his kingdoms”, a “new Christian Solomon through whom wisdom descends from the throne to enlighten the masses, in the fashion and style of the Orient” (Menéndez y Pelayo 210, quoted in Márquez Villanueva 25).9 While in most of Christian Europe learning would belong to the estate of the clerics, the Rey Sabio claimed it for the royalty:

Th e declaration that all knowledge comes from God and brings man closer to God, and that kings, by the fact of being kings, have greater knowledge and greater understanding, thus confers on the royal function a clerical, if not priestly character. Not only does the king share knowledge with the members of the church, but he possesses it to a greater degree . . . Holiness and wisdom are . . . closely linked, and, although the title did not become oﬃ cial until the seventeenth century, Fernando III was soon to receive the title of “Saint.” (Rucquoi 81)10

With his claim, Alfonso X becomes a saint-king; he conﬁ rms his involvement in state, secular and ecclesiastic spheres. However as he does so, he also places himself above all else through a concept of the cosmos in which there is no space for the Church as a power: “in Heaven Jesus Christ rules, on earth the King who acts in lieu of him” (Rucquoi 82). Rucquoi continues:

God’s Lieutenant in the kingdom, above the status of cleric and layman, he shares one of Divinity’s greatest attributes, Wisdom . . . [T]he King of Castile, like Solomon, must communicate this wisdom. Th e protection and encouragement that the Rey Sabio gives to translations and to numerous authors, or indeed to culture in general, is explained by reference to this “mission.” (82)

Alfonso X the Wise appears as a new Solomon with a concept of the monarchy that considers the king not only to be God’s lieutenant, but also His “friend.” Also, just as Solomon praises Shulamith in the Song of Songs, Alfonso X celebrates the Virgin in the Cantigas de Santa María.

9 Following Cárdenas (“Alfonso X: Incest” 94), Márquez Villanueva adds: “Th e Wise King speaks essentially as a master who exposes or comments a text” (“El rey Sabio habla en lo esencial como un maestro que expone o comenta un texto” [25, n. 19]). 10 Jofre de Loaysa in the Crónica de los reyes de Castilla (ﬁ nished in 1305) speaks of the sanctissimus rex Fernandus when he took Seville (72-73). [32] 188 M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 b) In his court, the king surrounds himself with scholars, learned men trained in the new universities of Palencia and Salamanca. Outstanding among them are those who assist him in his legal enterprise. According to the Siete Partidas (I.1.17a): the king must attend “the council of wise, learned and loyal men, who know no greed” [“consejo de homes sabidores e entendidos e leales e sin codicia”], since to reform or amend the laws, the king “should seek the counsel of wise men and learned men of law, and that they consider well what things should be amended, and that this is done with the most virtuous men who there may be and who are from as many lands as possible, so that they are fully in agreement” [“haya su acuerdo con omes entendidos e sabidores de derecho, e que caten bien cuáles son aquellas cosas que se deben enmendar, e que esto lo faga con los más omes buenos que pudiese haber et de más tierras, porque sean mucho de un acuerdo”] (quoted by Maravall 258-259). Th ere are also philosophers, men of letters and translators, especially Jews. We have no record of most of the “wise men” surrounding the Rey Sabio, perhaps because, being “new men,” there was no time to develop a genre that would permit the preservation of their details, and we have not yet a monograph about them. Th ere were also, of course, churchmen— although they no longer controlled the diﬀ usion of knowledge. Th e Libro del saber de astrología praises scholars who can manipulate the forces of the stars:

Pero esto non lo fazian otros omes sinon aquellos que eran de buenos entendimientos et de sotiles ingenios et spíritos. et que fazian sus uidas. et sus fechos ordenadamientre. et limpia. assi que se acordaron los spíritos con los otros spíritos celestiales. et por esto sopieron los sanctos. et los sabios philósophos todas las cosas ciertamientre. [But this work was done only by men who possessed good understanding, subtle wit and spirit, and who conducted their lives orderly and cleanly. And thus they accorded their spirits with those of the heavenly spirits, which allowed the saints and philosophers to have a truthful knowledge of all things.] (quoted and translated in Montero 7)

It has been said that natural philosophy off ered an intellectual meeting point, a safe haven where Jews, Muslims and Christians could interact and work together. An example is the translation enterprise in Alfonso’s court, with Jews and Christians working side by side. Th e Lucidario of Sancho IV states: “And this ‘knowledge of natures’ is more common to all the persons and it is used by Christians, and Jews, and Muslims (Moors), and all other kinds of men in this world who want to learn something” [“E este saber M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 189 [33] de las naturas es mas comun a todas las gentes del mundo e vsan por el christianos, e judios, e moros, e todas las otras maneras de omnes que biuen en el mundo que algo quieren aprender”] (quoted and translated in Montero 16). Georges Duby has noted that the late medieval monarchy, as it became stronger, acquired a capacity for social creation, the fruit of which would be the formation of a specialized body of learned men, beyond the previous classifi cations of medieval society, so that the diff erence between the educated and the uneducated increased, and the former acquired ever greater social standing (Duby and Lardreau, cited in Rodríguez de la Peña 18). Alfonso X took various measures to weaken the nobility and old elites: he decreed, for example, that while there should be no low or base person in public offi ce, neither should there be eminent people. In such posts the king should use “average men” (“hombres medianos”), with good personal qualities, of good family, and wealthy (Maravall 257-258). c) Alfonso X instituted a profound institutional and legislative reform, as well as a unifi ed system of weights and measures (O’Callaghan, “Image and Reality” and “Paths to Ruin”). He sought to increase the dependence of the lords on their king in order to do away with the political structure of feudalism (Maravall; O’Callaghan, “Ideology of Government”). Th e codifi cation carried out in works such as the Fuero real and Siete partidas aimed at putting an end to the legal diversity of the territories under his rule (Maravall 242-243). Th e king is seen not only as iudex, but as legislator (Maravall 230). According to the Espé- culo, the Goths united the law in Hispania, but the written code was lost and the laws forgotten (cited in Fernández-Ordóñez and Martin 72). However, various groups retained remanents of the code, with the result that each city tried to reassemble the laws individually, producing the variety of local systems (fueros), based on the older system: “Es digno de obser- varse que para el rey Alfonso la razón de la validez de los fueros se halla en ser fragmentos de un anterior Derecho general de todo el reino” [“It is worth noting that for King Alfonso the validity of the fueros lies in that they are fragments of the kingdom’s earlier general law”] (Maravall 241, n. 89). Th e Rey Sabio’s legal work is based on Roman Law, but there is also a clear infl uence of Aristotelianism; from this he adapts the concept of political life determined by “nature,” the response to which is the high level of autonomy and secularization of the Alfonsine political order. Th is possibility [34] 190 M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 of appealing to the “nature” of things, as a rational fi eld of investigation, was the great innovation of the period: “What the twelfth century lacked in order to enable it to recognize concrete reality beneath a world of symbols was the concept of nature, endowed with its own internal structure, albeit weakly . . . [T]he thirteenth century was indebted to Aristotelian physics” (Gilson 343, quoted by Maravall 215, n. 7). d) Th e direct involvement of the king in cultural policies, with the objective of encyclopedic knowledge. Rucquoi has noted that the twelfth-century renaissance was characterized “by an intense eff ort to ‘codify’ knowledge, an urgent need to unify all the sources known at the time” (78). Th e output of works coming from the royal scriptorium between the years 1250 and 1280 included books of history, law, religion, science and entertainment. In these books, Alfonso X, a man in search of science, rescues and conserves knowledge, signaling him as the heir to and depository of the science and knowledge from the past (Montero 4). In his study of the prologues of Alfonso’s scientifi c works, Roberto J. González-Casanovas points out that “through them all he conveys the same message of the quest for the best and most complete knowledge to place in the service of the kingdom in order to eff ect the greatest good” (113). Th e Alfonsine histories, such as the General Estoria, portray, above all, civilizing leaders: wise men, men of law and astronomers, such as Jupiter, Hercules, Perseus, Abraham and Moses. Th e king is seen as belonging to a long tradition of governors who were also scholars. Th e king is the intellectual and spiritual guide of his realm (Montero 4, n. 13, citing Salvador Martínez 11; Rico 113-114; Cárdenas, “Alfonso X’s Appropria- tion”). According to the testimony of Don Juan Manuel in the Libro de la caza (1: 519), the Rey Sabio also promoted Kabbalistic studies, the infl u- ence of which can be seen in works like the Setenario (see also Alfonso X 25, 39-45). e) Alfonso X’s purpose was to educate his people. Alfonso promoted the vernacular language through his written work. Cas- tilian Spanish became the norm in Alfonsine documents, following the precedent set by his father, Fernando III, who had used the vernacular in documents dated 1214 (Márquez Villanueva 18-19). Th e thirteenth century has been called the century of didactic encyclopedism. During the reign of Fernando III, letters and knowledge were fundamental in “the M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 191 [35] literary phenomenon known as the mester de clerecía, in which certain ‘intellectuals’ educated under the protection of the University of Palencia, wrote learned and didactic works aimed at the education of the general public” (Rucquoi 79-80). Th e mester de clerecía encompasses works such as the Libro de Alexandre which, together with the historical works of Jiménez de Rada and Lucas de Tuy, are, above all, works “for the education of princes,” refl ecting the importance of knowledge in the broadest sense (Rucquoi 83; Rodríguez de la Peña 33).

Th e cultural synthesis created by Alfonso X and his collaborators was denounced by his son and heir, Sancho IV, in the 1290s. Earlier, in 1279, the Castilian bishops had sent Pope Nicholas III (1277-1280) a list of complaints against the king’s numerous violations of ecclesiastical rights. Among the allegations was that of the presence of a group of natural philosophers in Alfonso’s court: men who denied the existence of God and preferred to concern themselves with the physical rather than the spiritual world. Two years earlier, Bishop Tempier had condemned 219 propositions that were being taught at the University of Paris, although Peter Linehan believes that, in truth, what concerned the Spanish bishops was not doctrine, but that their traditional role as royal counselors had been usurped by natural philosophers (Montero 7-8; Linehan 435-436).11 Shortly thereafter, the rumor of the “blasphemy of Alfonso X” circulated. It mentioned that the king had reputedly said that if he had been present at the time of creation, he would have given advice on how better to organize the universe: “Don Alfonso being in Seville said publicly that if he had been with God when He created the world, he would have altered many things so that they would be better than they were” [“don Alfonso estando en Seuilla dixo en plaça que si el fuera con Dios quando fazia el mundo que muchas cosas emendara en que se fi ziera mejor que lo que se fi zo”] (found in ms U of the Crónica general 1344, Biblioteca del Marqués de Heredia Spínola, Madrid [ant. Biblioteca de Francisco Zabálburu], quoted by Ruiz 82, n. 23; specifi c passage above also quoted by Funes 61 citing Ruiz; see also Cárdenas, “Towards an Understanding” 81). Th is myth represents the discontent with Alfonso’s cultural plan, in particular with certain features such as the promotion of astrology, the use of the vernacular or its secular tendencies. Sancho’s followers evoked the legend to legitimize their rebellion,

11 On the monarchy and its complex relationships with the Church, see Nieto Soria (Iglesia y poder real en Castilla and Fundamentos ideológicos del poder real en Castilla). [36] 192 M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 which was supported by the majority of the ecclesiastical hierarchy (Salva- dor Martínez 486). In 1293, Sancho IV commissioned the writing of the Lucidario. Th e work deﬁ nes a cultural and religious orthodoxy, in which theology and astrology should be kept segregated (Montero 8-10). All this accompanied the disappearance or mutilation of many Alfonsine manuscripts (Domínguez Rodríguez 201). After Sancho IV’s reign there is no record of an author of royal lineage, with the exception of Don Juan Man- uel (Rucquoi 84).

Conclusion Intellectual infl uences of Muslim on Christian culture, and the important role played by Jews as mediators, are beyond doubt. Th e works of authors who lived during the Almohad period, such as al-Bitrūjị̄ and Averroes, were translated at a very early stage, a clear sign that the Christian world admitted the superiority of the Muslims in various branches of knowledge, such as philosophy or astronomy. Th is is a recognized fact, although we may need reminding of it from time to time (see Alain de Libera). Th ere is still much to study with regard to the translation of religious texts, such as the professions of faith of Ibn Tūmart, which are generally understood to have been composed to provoke religious controversy, but for which there may have been other determining factors. More attention should be paid to direct contact, such as that represented by members of both the Chris- tian and Muslim elites who moved between the courts of the Christian kings and that of the Almohad caliph, as did Don Álvar Pérez de Castro and his family. Historian Marshall Hodgson’s book, Th e Venture of Islam, published in the 1970s, but with little impact outside the Anglo-Saxon—or, to be more precise, American—world, coined the term “Islamicate” to refer to a common culture: not restricted to the Islamic religion, for it also embraced Jews and Christians within the Islamic sphere of infl uence. In this Islami- cate world, ideas, doctrines, narratives, etc., existed in diff erent religious contexts, being adapted to the specifi c needs of each but maintaining an essential similarity (Hodgson; Bulliet). Although there are many scholars who fi rmly situate the life and times of Alfonso X the Wise within this Islamicate world, there are still many who resist the idea. In general, as indicated above, there is a reluctant, or inevitable, admission of the undeniable fact that many of the Alfonsine works were translations from the M. Fierro / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 175-198 193 [37]

Arabic; but there is no inclination to acknowledge the wider implications that this fact may have. Th is is in spite of the fact that almost all the scholars dealing with Alfonso X at some point express their surprise or amaze- ment at many of his cultural and religious policies. However, if Alfonso’s works are looked at from the Islamicate point of view, most of his policies are not surprising. Even a scholar such as Márquez Villanueva, who may be categorized as espousing the opposite point of view, has been unable to articulate in proper context this Arab-Islamic infl uence, in favor of which he argued for so long. He has been unable to recreate a convincing framework of political and religious culture within the Islamic world to corre- spond, in general terms, to that developed by Alfonso X. Th rough study of the relationship between Alfonso X and the specifi c Almohad context, we understand the supremacy of knowledge as a criterion of political, social or moral hierarchization (the defi nition of “sapientialism” as proposed by Rodríguez de la Peña) and an instrument to legitimize the renewal of society, a radical political transformation.

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It Takes Three to Tango: Ramon Llull, Solomon ibn Adret and Alfonso of Valladolid Debate the Trinity

Harvey J. Hames Department of General History, Ben Gurion University of the Negev, Beersheba 84105, Israel e-mail: [email protected]

Abstract Ramon Llull used what he called “necessary reason” to prove the truth of Christianity in general and the doctrine of the Trinity in particular. He appropriated contemporary Kab- balistic ideas about the Godhead in order to demonstrate that their reasoning implied the existence of a Trinity and that Christianity was the true faith. Solomon ibn Adret was forced to use Kabbalistic teachings to contradict Llull’s arguments and show that seﬁrotic imagery did not imply a Trinitarian structure in the Godhead. Alfonso of Valladolid, a Jewish convert to Christianity, utilizes Llull’s arguments and translates them into a Jewish context and language in a way that supersedes and dismisses Solomon ibn Adret’s response. Unlike Llull who was not familiar with the intricacies of the Hebrew language, Alfonso was able to translate Llull’s arguments about the Trinity into a language that would be immediately recognizable and more diﬃcult to refute for his Jewish contemporaries.

Keywords Trinity, Seﬁrot, Kabbalah, Judaism, Christianity, conversion, Ramon Llull, Solomon ibn Adret, Alfonso of Valladolid

The “trialogue” described here did not take place on a particular day, but is one that reflects the interaction between Jewish and Christian thinkers living more or less at the same time, having to deal with similar existential issues and find solutions that enable them to make sense of their particular historical circumstances. What links these three figures is that the issue considered here is central, intricate and critical, and cannot be swept aside or ignored without consequences for broader circles of co-religionists. Ramon Llull, the instigator, was driven by his desire to convert Jews and Muslims, inspired by the belief that he was the recipient of a divinely

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 [44] 200 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 revealed Art, a science based not on authoritative texts, but on necessary reason, which could conclusively demonstrate the truth of Christianity. Solomon ibn Adret, a leader of his community and the disciple of one of the greatest religious figures of the thirteenth century, Nahmanides, felt obligated to react and respond to the challenge, in order to preserve the authenticity and relevance of his Jewish faith for his co-religionists. The third figure, Abner of Burgos, otherwise known as Alfonso de Valladolid, is perhaps the most interesting. He moved between Judaism and Christi- anity for many years, before opting, at least formally, for the latter faith. Yet, his engagement with the arguments of the former two figures, both Christian and Jew, shows an ambivalence that blurs the boundaries between the faiths and raises interesting issues about identity in a multi- confessional society. Ramon Llull (c. 1232-1316), born and raised in Majorca, recently recaptured from the Muslims, wrote some two hundred works in Latin, Catalan and Arabic, many of which were attempts to refine the divinely revealed Art which he believed encompassed all knowledge and led to the necessary conclusion that Christianity was indeed the true faith. To prove the existence of the Trinity, one of the main stumbling blocks between Judaism and Christianity, Llull focused on the internal workings of the Godhead and the divine attributes in the same way that some of his Jew- ish contemporaries were developing the concept of the Sefirot, the divine attributes or Dignities (See Scholem; Idel, Kabbalah and “Dignitate”). These Kabbalists were attempting to offer an alternative understanding of the nature of the Divine Being, creation, the exile and the relationship between man and God to that proposed by Maimonides and his followers. They posited the existence of the tenSefirot emanating from within the Ein sof (‘the Infinite’) as revealing different aspects of the Divine and His presence in creation and allowing man to ascend to God. Llull, like many of his Jewish contemporaries, claimed that each of the Dignities is simultaneously present in all the others and that their activity is both within and outside themselves. In other words, the Dignities represent the creative element of the Godhead. Over some thirty years, Llull developed and refined his theory of the correlatives of action, which explained how creation could have taken place without any change in the Godhead, a concept that preoccupied the thoughts of his Jewish contemporaries as well. The basis of his theory is that if one wants to avoid change in the Godhead, one must admit the existence of a triad of agent- patient-action within each of the Dignities, which are the divine essence. H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 201 [45]

God must be internally and eternally active so that creation can occur without any change in God. According to Llull’s theory, the Trinity is the internal, eternal activity in the Godhead. In other words, for creation to come about without implying change in the Godhead, the Dignities would need to have been active internally and eternally, and consequently, this activity can only exist without implying plurality if it is triune.1 To demonstrate this internal, eternal and necessary action within the Digni- ties, Llull, in effect, invented new Latin forms to convey in that language as well as in the Romance tongues what can be expressed readily in Hebrew and Arabic: namely, deriving transitive and passive verb forms from a noun in order to express agent and patient (i.e., the object doing good and the subject receiving that good). For example, taking the Dig- nity of Goodness, bonea in Catalan, the correlatives of action would be expressed as bonificant (the agent), bonificat or bonificable (the recipient) and bonificar (the act). The “Arabic mode of speech” of these correlatives of action, as they were referred to by Llull’s detractors in Paris, was the key for a Christian reading of God and the creation and would force Jews and Muslims to re-examine their beliefs (See Pring-Mill; Hames, “Language of Conversion”). In the Catalan Libre de Déu (1300), dedicated to explicating the nature of God, one can almost hear echoes of Llull’s many conversations with his Jewish—or Muslim—contemporaries. The book is divided into two main sections, the first dealing with God according to His essence, properties, Dignities and their acts; and the second part with Christ and the Incarna- tion. Each of the main sections is divided into ten chapters answering ten questions, and each chapter is made up of ten paragraphs. Llull writes in the introduction:

Aquest libre es molt util a saber, e pot esser sabut en breu de temps . . . E encara ab eyl pot hom contrastar ab infaels, destruent a eyls les errors e objeccions que fan contra le fe catholica, als quals pot hom fer per aquest libre objeccions e probacions, les quals eyls per raho no poran destruir. [This book is very useful for acquiring knowledge, and it is possible to study it in a very brief period . . . and moreover, with it, one can dispute with the non-believers, destroying the errors and objections they have against the Christian faith, against which, using this book, one can formulate

1 For a more detailed exposition of how Llull utilized the Ars for the purpose of convincing the Jews of the truth of Christianity, see Hames, Art of Conversion. On the Ars itself, see Bonner; and for the development of the theory of correlatives of action in Llull’s thought, see Gayà Estelrich. [46] 202 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224

counter-arguments and proofs, which they will not be able to destroy using reason.] (Libre de Déu 273; translation mine)

The arguments are developed so to counter the opponents’ objections as they arise, and Llull hopes that, in the end, his opponents will admit the truth of the Christian concept of God. Llull begins his reasoning with the proof that there must be a God who is at the greatest distance from contrariety and evil and is the most perfect inﬁnite Goodness, Greatness and all the other Dignities (Libre de Déu 275-277).2 All the Dignities must be equal in essence and nature, otherwise they would be accidents and unable to exist in themselves, by themselves, and would therefore be imperfect. Hence, each Dignity is essentially identiﬁed with and includes all the other Dignities. Llull continues with a discussion about the acts of the Dignities:

Sens aquests actes neguna dignitat no pot esser soberina, axi con bonea, qui sens bonificar hauria natura ociosa, la qual ociositat li seria mal, ab lo qual no poria esser sobirana . . . E car les sobiranes dignitats se convertesxen, cove que les sobirans actes de eyles se convertesquen, en tant que la un sia l altre; per lo qual convertiment cove esser de necessitat un ens sobira, lo qual ensercam e un Deu appeylam, qui es sobira per sobira bonificar, magnificar, durar e los altres. E en aquest pas començam a signif- ficar la sancta divina trinitat de la qual parlarem en les altres questions. [Without which acts none of the Dignities can be sovereign, for instance goodness, which without bonificar would have an idle nature, which idleness would be evil, and as a result, it [good] could not be sovereign . . . And in the same manner that the sovereign Dig- nities are mutually identified, their sovereign acts are also mutually identifiable, inas- much as one is the other; by which mutual identification, by necessity there must be one sovereign being, for which we are searching and which we will call one God, who is sovereign through the sovereign acts of bonificar, magnificar, durar and all other [acts of the other Dignities]. And in this manner, we begin to indicate the holy divine Trinity, which we will discuss more in the other questions.] (Libre de Déu 278-279; translation mine)

In the second chapter, Llull asks “What is God?” His answer is ﬁrst and foremost that God is a whole unity and substance in which each of the Dignities is the other:

Mas, la unitat de Deu es de si matexa plena, en quant ha natura de unient, unit, e unir de tota sa essencia matexa, e en si matexa, e per si matexa, eternalment e inﬁnida,

2 This proof is very Anselmian in character as Llull is looking from “a being, that a greater being than that being there cannot be” (Anselm 116-121). H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 203 [47]

sens la qual natura de unient, unit e unir no poria esser de di matexa plena, ans seria enaxi buyda e ociosa . . . Ayço mateix del enteniment, a qui n privaria natura de entenent, entes e entendre. [Moreover, the unity of God is of itself whole, in that it has the nature of unient (agent), unit (patient) and unir (act of unifying) eternally and inﬁnitely in all its essence, in itself, and for itself, without which nature of unient, unit, and unir, it would be unable to be whole of itself, because it would be empty and idle . . . as would be the intellect if deprived of the nature of entenent (agent), entes (patient) and entendre (the act of understanding).] (Libre de Déu 286; translation mine)

In other words, as a matter of logic, the very unity of God necessarily implies this internal triune structure, for otherwise it cannot be a unity. Since the Trinitarian structure is the essential and eternal nature of the divine, it must be such for each of the Dignities as well. Llull goes on to say that God is the substance which is natural Good- ness, Greatness, etc., giving a list of ten divine Dignities in this work, instead of the usual nine found in almost all his other works of this period.3 In the context of this work, which might possibly reflect Llull’s polemic with Jews, the apparent reference to the ten Sefirot of the Kab- balah is not insignificant, as the following passage shows:

Deus es aquella substancia e essencia qui es de moltes coses, sens que aquelles no son parts d eyla. Ayço no pot hom dir de angel, ne de neguna substancia creada, con sia ço que la substancia de angel sia ajustada de natural bonea, granea, duracio e les altres, qui son parts d eyl, en quant que la una no es l altra. Mas, en Deu, bonea, granea, eternitat e les altres se convertexen . . . Es encara Deus substancia qui es molt coses sens part, en quant bonea; la qual bonea es de moltes coses sens parts, axi con de bonificatiu, bonificable, e bonificar. E car lo bonificatiu es tota la bonea, no es part d eyla, e car bonifica de tot si mateix lo bonificat, esta la bonificat tota la bonea, e no part. Ayço mateix de lo bonificar qui es tota la bonea, en quant es de tot lo bonificant e l bonificat. Es encara Deus substancia e essencia qui es de moltes coses sens parts, en quant Deus pare es tota la substancia divina, e tot si mateix engenra Deu fill, qui es tota la substancia; e de tota la substancia d amdos ix lo sanct esperit qui es tota la substancia. [God is that substance and essence which consists of many things, without their being parts of Him. One cannot say this of an angel, or of any other created thing, since the substance of an angel is made up of natural goodness, greatness and duration which are parts of him, in that any one of them is not the other. However, in God, goodness, greatness, eternity and the others [the other Dignities] are mutually convertible . . . Therefore, God is a substance of many things without division: in that He is goodness; that goodness has many things without division, i.e., bonificatiu

3 Libre de Déu: “Deus es aquella substancia qui es natural bonea, granea, eternitat, poder, saviesa, volentat, virtut, veritat, gloria e compliment” (289). [48] 204 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224

(agent), bonificable (patient) and bonificar (act of goodness). And in the same way that bonificatiu is the entire goodness, not part of it, and since it bonifies the bonificat (patient) from all of itself, so bonificat is total goodness and not part of it. The same is true of bonificar, which is total goodness in that it is all of bonificant and bonificat. Thus, God is a substance and essence which is of many things without division, in that God the Father is the totality of the divine substance, and His being/matter generates God the Son, who is the totality of the divine substance; and from the totality of the substance of both emerges the Holy Spirit, who is the totality of the divine substance.] (Libre de Déu 290-291; translation mine)

God, in other words, is different from all created beings in that although His essence is composed of many divine Dignities, they are each a totality of His essence, not just part of it, and therefore, God is one unified essence. But in the same way that being unified implies the internal triune relationship of agent-patient-act, each of these three relational elements is a totality of each of the others, the Dignities and the divine essence, and this eternal and internal relationship is the Trinity. In another passage Llull explains how the unity of God can only be a unity in Trinity. When considered in the context of a disputation with Jews, the latter would then have to think about and explain very carefully, their own conception of the unity of God. Since Llull’s Kabbalist contemporaries accept unwaveringly God’s eternal wisdom and will, the question then arises as to how can these attributes exist without contradicting the perfect and simple unity of the Godhead. Llull’s correlatives seem to provide a comprehensive explanation that will allow for these attributes without contradicting the divine unity:

Deus enten que sa unitat es complida, e no poria entendre que sa unitat fos complida sens natura de unient, unit e unir, sens los quals sa natura no hauria poder natural, ni natural concordança, ni egualitat, virtut, gloria e bontat. Ha, donchs, la divina unitat, qui es compleda natura de unient, unit, e unir, per la qual u es de u, axi con lum de lum, ço es a saber, que l unit es del unient, e l unir es d amdos. E l unir per via de generacio es lo pare e l fill, e es lo pare e l fill, car en aquell engenrar e unir es lo fill del pare, engenrant lo pare lo fill de si mateix e no de altre; e cascuna singular proprietat personal e ensemps son una proprietat communa [God understands that His unity is perfect, and He could not understand that His unity was perfect without the nature of unient, unit and unir, because without them His nature would not have natural power, or natural concordance, equality, virtue, glory or goodness. The divine unity, therefore, is a complete nature of unient, unit, and unir, in that one is of one, like light of light, in other words, that the patient is of the agent, and the act of unity is of them both. And unir through generation is the Father and Son, and it is the Father and Son because in engenrar and unir, the Son is of the Father, the Father gen- H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 205 [49]

erating the Son of Himelf and not of any other; and each of the persons is a single individual property and together they are one common property] (Libre de Déu 294; translation mine)

Thus, the very unity of God is dependent on this Trinity, without which it would be impossible to ascribe to God any attributes without contradicting that unity. Therefore, when Llull asks “Of what quantity is God?,” he can reply:

Deus es substancia sens negun accident. E car quantitat es accident, Deus no pot esser quant per quantitat. E encara, car Deu es substancia infinida e eternal, quantitat en eyla no ha loch, ni segons extensitat ni vertut, ni segons temps. E car en Deu no cau quantitat, Deu pare, sens quantitat, produu e engenra Deu fill eternalment e infinida; e l pare e l fill, sens quantitat, espiren lo sanct espirit per infinir e eternar. [God is a substance with no accidents. And since quantity is an accident, God cannot be a number through quantity. And moreover, because God is infinite and eternal substance, there is no place in Him for quantity, neither with regard to extent, virtue or time. And because God is not consistent with quantity, God the Father, without quantity, produces and generates God the Son eternally and infinitely; and the Father and Son, without quantity, breathe the Holy Spirit through the acts of infinir and eternar.] (Libre de Déu 302; translation mine)

In other words, if for God to be a unity He must be a Trinity of eternal operation, then the persons of the Trinity are not quantity in the divinity because they are the essential structure and unity of God. One could almost imagine a dialogue between Llull and his Jewish opponent as something like the following:

Ramon: “I have now conclusively demonstrated the necessary existence of a Trinity in the divine Dignities which are the whole essence of God, and hence, the truth of the Christian faith.” Solomon: “Ah, but what you have shown is that God is not a simple perfect being, in that there is a plurality of persons in the Dignities (Seﬁrot). We believe that God is one simple eternal being encompassing His Dignities (Seﬁrot).” Ramon: “Listen carefully: the Trinity is not a plurality, because it is the very essence of God’s oneness and simplicity. Without this triune relationship, God could not be one in perfect simplicity, nor could creation have taken place without admitting change in the Godhead. This necessary eternal and internal dynamic within the God- head is what we Christians call the Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Spirit, one in three, three in one.” Solomon: “Hmm, give me a moment to think about that one.” [50] 206 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224

In Barcelona during the summer of 1263, in the presence of the count- King James I, Friar Paul, a Dominican converted from Judaism, held a public disputation with Nahmanides, the leading Jewish intellectual ﬁg- ure of the realm, in order to prove the truth of the Christian faith. On the Sabbath following the end of the disputation, the king, along with his confessor and prior Minister General of the Dominican order, Ramon de Penyafort, and Friar Paul, came to one of the synagogues in Barcelona to preach to the Jews. Nahmanides, Solomon ibn Adret’s teacher, was able to dismiss Ramon de Penyafort’s explication of the Trinity as “wisdom, will and power” by saying:

ואמרתי שאני מודה שהאלוה חכם ולא טיפש, וחפץ בלא הרגשה, ויכול ולא חלש. אבל לשון שלוש טעות גמורה, שאין החכמה בבורא מקרה, אבל הוא וחכמתו אחד והוא וחפצו אחד והוא ויכולתו אחד. אם כן החכמה והחפץ והיכולת הכל אחד. וגם אם היו מקרים בו, אין הדבר שהוא אלהות שלשה אבל הוא אחד נושא מקרים שלשה . . . ואם נמנה כן בטעות, על כרחנו נאמר רבוע, כי הדבר שהוא אלוה וחכמתו וחפצו ויכלתו ימנו, והנה הם ארבעה. ועוד יש לכם לומר חמוש, כי הוא חי, והחיות בו כמו החכמה ויהיו גדרו: חי חכם חפץ יכול ועצם האלהות חמשה. כל זה טעות מבואר. [I admit that God is wise and not foolish, that He has will without emotion, and that He is powerful and not weak. However, the term Trinity is completely erroneous, for wisdom is not an accident in the Creator. Rather, He and His wisdom are one, He and His will are one, He and His power are one, and if so, wisdom, will and power are one. Even if God had accidental qualities, they would not be a Trinity, but they would be one substance with three accidental properties . . . If we erroneously count [three in the divine], we would have to speak necessarily about four, for the being who is the deity, with His wisdom, will and power, make four in total. Moreover, we should be speaking of five, in that He is living which is in Him equally like His wisdom, and thus He should be defined as living, wise, willing, powerful and the essence of the deity making five! And clearly, this is erroneous.] (Nahmanides 1: 319-320; translation mine)4

This answer might have been good enough for the Dominicans Ramon de Penyafort, Friar Paul or Ramon Martí, the author of the inimitable Pugio ﬁdei, but it would not have suﬃced for Llull, who, as we have seen, did not characterize certain attributes as being the Trinity, but posited the correlatives of action within the divine attributes themselves as the Trin- ity, which is imperative for the existence of one divine essence. To respond to Llull and neutralize the doctrine of the correlatives, Solomon ibn Adret would need to be more inventive and original.

4 For an appraisal of Nahmanides’ refutation of Ramon de Penyafort, see Chazan 82-83. On the disputation itself, see Cohen 108-128 and Hames, “Reason and Faith.” H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 207 [51]

Solomon ibn Adret did in fact consider the position Llull expressed in the imaginary dialogue above. In a response to “One of the Wise Men of the Gentiles,”—without doubt, Ramon Llull himself—he engaged the issue directly using Lullian terminology purposely, but subtly, to show that Llull’s ideas could be refuted.5 The discussion is centered on Deuter- onomy 6:4, “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God the Lord is One.” The obvious claim raised by the Christian is that the plurality or Trinity of the Godhead is represented here by the appearance of the three names of God, while unity is implied in that they are all One.6 Solomon ibn Adret explains:

כי מלת שמע כוללת שלשה עניינים אלה, שמיעת האזן . . . והבנת הלב . . . וקבלת דבר והאמנתו . . . ותכלית כל זה שתשמע ותבינהו ונחקרהו [that the word shema includes the following three things—the ear hearing . . . the heart understanding . . . and its acceptance and belief . . . and the purpose of all this is that you should hear understand and intellectualize.] (Adret, Teshubot ha-Rashba 1: 213; translation mine)7

This seems to echo Llull’s Trinitarian structure of the faculties of the soul. Llull’s idea of the soul—based on the Augustinian analogy—is composed of the faculties of the memory remembering, the intellect understanding and the will loving or hating, depending on the speciﬁc problem to be addressed. For Llull, reﬁning these faculties is a necessary step along the path to the truth, and through this process one recognizes the Trinity. Solomon ibn Adret, on the other hand, while using similar terminology, implies that after applying these faculties, one will recognize the unity of

5 This text is one part of a larger polemical tract, most of which is directed against Ramon Martí. The manuscript evidence shows that this section existed on its own and was edited into the larger polemical tract at a later date. See Hames, Art of Conversion 289-292. 6 This verse is discussed inPugio fidei; however the text’s discussion does not take into account the Jewish opinion expressed here. See Martin, Pugio fidei Mauros et Judaeos 484, 494. 7 There is a variant reading in the printed edition, which would translate the last term as ‘remember’ (tizkerehu) rather than ‘intellectualize’ (nahkerehu), which is closer to Lull- ian terminology. However, Bodleian Library, Oxford, ms 1587, fol. 88a, which is the earliest and probably the most reliable source, supports the latter reading. In the following citations from this text, I have used the printed edition, incorporating significant changes from the manuscript variants. [52] 208 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 the Godhead and the impossibility of any plurality or Trinity within it (Llull, Ars demonstrativa 322-24). Solomon ibn Adret further reinforces the importance of investigating and understanding the unity of the Godhead, in a manner which seems to suggest that he is acutely aware of the seriousness of the challenge to the Jewish conception of the divine. Using the verse “And you shall know today, and you shall place it in your heart, that the Lord is God in the heavens above and upon the earth below; there is no other” (Deut. 4:39), he explains:

לשמוע ולדעת ולבחון אותו מצד החקירה כדי שנדע אמתתו, ושלא נתפתה בהבאתו בחקירה ראשונה, עד שנקבל על הכל מה שאי אפשר לחלוק עליו. ונשיב אותו אל הלב ונחקיר אותו חקירת אמתית הסותרת כל הספורים וכל המחלוקות, כי כל שתוסיף בחקירה תוסיף אמונה ונצוח על כל מי שיטעון בהפך, ואז תביאך החקירה האמתית ליחדו על הכל. כי בשמים ממעל, רמז לגלגלים ומה שלמעלה מהם, ר"ל השכלים הנפרדים. ועל הארץ מתחת, רמז לשפלים, אין עוד דומה לו. ואמרו אין עוד לשלול ממנו הרבוי מאיזה צד שיהיה, לא יתכן לומר אין עוד [Its meaning is to hear and to know Him through intellectualizing, so that we should know His reality, and we should not be tempted to understand [everything] about Him in a preliminary investigation, until we have received about It [the Godhead] everything about which there can be no disagreement. And we should place it in our heart (soul) and intellectualize it [as] a real intellectualization, which will negate all opposites and all divisions [in the Godhead]. Because, the more you intellectualize, the more you will be able to defeat all who claim otherwise. And then, the true intellectualization will bring one [to the knowledge] that “in the heavens above,” implying the spheres and what is below them like the separate intellects, and “upon the earth below,” implying the lower beings, there is nothing comparable to Him, and they said “there is no other” to negate from Him any plurality, for if there was any possibility of plurality, it would be impossible [for the verse] to say “no other”.] (Adret, Teshubot ha-Rashba 1: 213-214; translation mine)

This emphasis on the soul’s understanding of the unity of the Godhead would seem to counter the Lullian idea of the soul remembering, understanding and loving the Trinitarian structure. In other words, if in Llull’s Art the soul will recognize the existence of the Trinity, Solomon ibn Adret stresses the soul’s need to reﬂect repeatedly on the Godhead, and to recognize its unity. Moreover, if for Llull, reﬂection on creation illustrates God’s Trinitarian structure, Solomon ibn Adret emphasizes that wherever the soul searches—in the heavens above or on earth below—God’s perfect unity is demonstrated. The Christian asks Solomon ibn Adret: H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 209 [53]

בתפלה, שלשה פעמים הזכרת השם בפסוק שמע, יראה הפך כונתך. כי שם נרמז לשלשה באמרו ה' אלהינו ה' אחד, ונרמז להיות הכל אחד באמרו אחד. ועוד כי אמרו במדרש, אל אלהים ה' דבר ויקרא ארץ, למה נאמרו שלשה שמות הללו כאן לומר שבאותן שלש מדוח ברא הקב״ה אח ﬠולמו [In the prayers, the name of God is mentioned three times in the Shema, which would seem to imply the opposite of your contention. For the Trinity is signiﬁed when it says “the Lord our God the Lord,” and complete unity is implied when it says “One.” Moreover, in the Midrash (Psalms 50:1) it says: “El Elohim Yahweh spoke and called it earth.” Why were these three names mentioned here? They imply that with these three attributes (midot) God created His world.] (Adret, Teshubot ha- Rashba 1: 214; translation mine)8

The Midrash on this verse in Psalms is indeed a very strong argument for למה הזכיר שמו של הקב"ה ג' פעמים. ללמדך :the Christian position שבשלשה שמות הללו ברא הקב"ה את עולמו כנגד שלשה מדות שבהן נברא -Why is the name of God men“] העולם, ואלו הן החכמה והדעת והתבונה tioned three times? To teach you that with these three names God created His world, signifying the three good attributes with which God created His world; Wisdom, Knowledge and Intelligence”] (ha-Kohen 94; translation mine). Hence, as far as the Christians were concerned, the Trinity was signified. However, in Adret’s response, the latter part of the Midrash referring to the names of the divine attributes was not cited by the Chris- tian, suggesting that the Midrash was probably not used here as it commonly was in Christian polemic (Pugio fidei 494; Abner of Burgos 1: 162; see also Joseph b. R. Nathan Official 57-58). The nature of Solomon ibn Adret’s answer seems to suggest that Llull evokes this Midrash as a textual base to show rationally and by necessary reason how his theory of the Dignities’ eternal and active correlatives imply the necessity of a Trinity, without which structure the act of creation would have been impossible. Llull would not have wanted to utilize the latter part of the Midrash giving the names of the attributes, because both he and Solomon ibn Adret are in agreement that there are divine attributes (whether referred to as Dignities or Sefirot), and Llull was interested in demonstrating their internal eternal structure. Solomon ibn Adret in his reply does not refer to the latter part of the Midrash either, strengthening the supposition that his

8 This Midrash is also quoted inPugio fidei (Martin 94); however, there is no correlation between Martí’s discussion and the answer given by Adret, which would suggest that Martí was unaware of the more mystical interpretation adopted by Adret in his answer. Martí takes the proprietates of sapientia scientia atque intelligentia at face value as representing the Trinity. [54] 210 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 discussion with Llull was not based on the three attributes wisdom, knowledge and intelligence cited in the Midrash. Solomon ibn Adret does not try to contradict Llull with a different exegetical explanation of the Shema and the Midrash. Instead, obviously perceiving a real threat from Llull regarding the problem of the essence and unity of the Godhead, he suggests a Kabbalistic explanation with regard to the different names of God in the Bible. He explains that the name Elohim refers to a leader and judge, and hence, that the three names in the Shema are meant to emphasize that it is God himself—not a star, angel or constellation—who watches over and judges the Jews and that He is one, unlike the other nations who are guided and led by one of God’s creations. Following this, however, Solomon ibn Adret says:

ומה שאמרו במדרש, אל אלוהים ה' דבר וגו', שבאותן שלש מדות ברא הקב"ה את עולמו במדת אל ואלהים ה'. דע, כי שלש מדות יש, מדן הדין ומדת רחמים ומדת מזוגית בין הדין ובין הרחמים. ודע, כי אי אפשר להיות העולם עומד על שלמותו בשתי המדות הראשונות לבד. שאם נברא במדת הדין לבד, אי אפשר לו להתקיים רגע, כי אין צדיק בארץ אשר יעשה טוב ולא יחטא. ואם חטא, היתה מדת הדין פוגעת בו מיד, וכלתו ואת עציו ואת אבניו, והיה העולם שמם . . . וכן אם נברא במדת הרחמים היה הכל שוה ברוב החטא, ויעבוד או יכפור אין הפרש. ואם כן, כי מדת הרחמים תכפר על הכל ותתבטל הכונה בבריאה, שנבראו הנבראים לעבודת השי"ת ולבחור בטוב ומאוס ברע. על כן אי אפשר להיות לו עמידה על הכונה האמיתית שנברא עליה עד שנברא במדה בלולה משתי מדות האלה להאריך אפו לחוטא אולי ישוב ורפא לו. ועודנו לא ישוב, העונש בזה ובבא, זה אמת ונכון. ושם אלהים, מדת הדין הגמורה. ושם ה', מדת הרחמים הגמורה ושם אל, מדה כלולה ומזוגה. [And of what the Rabbis said in the Midrash, that with those three attributes (midot) God created the world, with the attributes El, Elohim and Yahweh, know that there are three attributes; judgment, mercy and a third being a total conjunction (mezugah) of both judgment and mercy.9 And know that it is impossible for the world to stand perfected, and for the purpose for which it was created, with only the ﬁrst two attributes alone. For if the world had been created with the attribute of Judgment alone, it could not have existed for a moment, since there is no righteous man in the world who can always do good and never sin. And if he sinned, the attribute of Judgment would have acted instantly and destroyed it [the world], its trees, its stones and the world would be deserted . . . And if the world was created with the attribute of total Mercy alone, everything would be equal, goodness and sinfulness, and there would be no diﬀerence between one who worshipped and one who transgressed, and there would be no judgment because the attribute of Mercy would forgive every transgression, and that would negate the reason for creation, because creatures were created in order to worship God, choosing good and hating evil. Hence, it is impossible for

9 The wordknow is a common linguistic term used to introduce a Kabbalistic teaching. This terminology is not used in the other chapters of this treatise. H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 211 [55]

anyone to have any conception of the true intention in the creation [of the world] until [he understands that] it was created from an attribute incorporating the two other attributes, to extend His mercy to the sinner, perhaps he will repent and will be healed. And if he still does not repent, the punishment will be in this and the next [world], and this is the Truth and it is correct. And the name Elohim represents the attribute of complete Judgment. And the name Yahweh, the attribute of complete Mercy. And the name El is the attribute of total conjunction (mezugah) of both.] (Teshubot ha-Rashba 1: 218; translation mine)10

In this answer Solomon ibn Adret does not hesitate to reveal supposedly esoteric Kabbalistic teachings that form a basis for explaining the emana- tions of God, the world of the Sefirot and creation. This answer reveals a Kabbalistic view of the relationship between the three divine names and the attributes (See Idel, “Notes on the Fringe” 691). Solomon ibn Adret’s choice of terminology is not accidental, but rather part of the overall context of his answer and the way he deals with the Midrashic text. Through the use of the root mzg (‘conjunction’) to describe the relationship between the two opposing attributes and the third, Solomon ibn Adret adopts and adapts Lullian terminology to refute Llull’s own suggestion that the three names of God accord with his intrinsic Trinitarian structure of the Dignities. Llull maintains that the idea of conjunció or composta helps explain the relationship between the different persons of the Trinity and their eternal activity in the Dignities. Solomon ibn Adret, understanding the dangers inherent in Llull’s teachings, explained that the three names do not represent the internal operations of the Dignities which allow creation to take place, but rather refer to three of the ten Sefirot, without which creation would have been impossible and the world could not have come into existence. This argument does not seem to refute Llull directly, since it does not undermine his doctrine of the correlatives of action, but it does return a doubting Kabbalist to a framework through which the unity of God can be envisioned without a Trinitarian structure.

10 See also Perushei ha-Aggadot (50) where Adret starts his teaching with: “And there is in this a secret”; i.e., he is revealing Kabbalah. However, here the terminology is diﬀerent. Adret does not discuss the third attribute as a conjunction of the other two, but as “including” the other two. This would indicate the importance of the terminology in the answer to the Christian scholar, further supporting the supposition that it is Llull, as Adret is using the former’s terminology. See also Llull: “The keys to the gates of love are guilded with cares, sighs and tears . . . And the gates are guarded by justice and mercy” (Book of the Lover 194, versicle 42). [56] 212 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224

This line of argument is clariﬁed in the continuation of the passage where Solomon ibn Adret seems to take issue with Llull’s Trinitarian structure. He writes:

ומה שיגלה לך עוד זה, הוא מה שכתב בראש התורה, ביום עשות ה' אלהים ארץ ארץ ושמים או ביום עשות אלהים ארץ ושמים היתה באפשר לומר שהזכיר השם האחד ומן הידוע שהוא כולל את הכל כאמרך אדם שגדרת בו כל מה שהיה בגדר האדם . . . אבל אם באת להזכירו בפרטי הדברים שגודרים אותו אינך נמלט מהזכיר כל פרטיו שגודרים אותו. על כן, בבואו לדבר בפרטי המדות שברא העולם על הכונה שאמרת לא היה באפשר למנות השתים ולהניח הא'. אבל לפי מה שאמרתי אני ראוי ונאות כן. שאי אפשר לשתי המדות, ר"ל מדת הדין ומדת הרחמים להתקבץ ביחד שלא תתילד מביניהם המדה המזוגה הכלולה משתיהן בהכרח. ופעמים ידבר הכתוב באחת, ויודע שהכל ביחד כאמרו בראשית ברא אלהים, ופעמים ימנה השתי מדות להיות ההכרח נותן שנתמזג השלישית מהשתים באמרו ביום עשות ה' אלהים ארץ ושמים. [And what will be further revealed to you is what is written at the beginning of the Torah, “On the day Yahweh, Elohim made heaven and earth” (Genesis 2:4), it would have been possible to write the one name [of God] and as it is well known, it includes everything, as for example when you say [the word] man by saying which you have included all that is in the deﬁnition of man . . . but if you intend to mention all the parts of which man is composed, you have no choice but to mention all the diﬀerent parts of which he is composed. Hence when speaking about the particulars of the attributes with which the world was created, according to your theory, it would be impossible to mention just two and leave out the third. But, according to what I have explained, it is right and proper to do so. Is it possible to have the two attributes, i.e., the attribute of Justice and that of Mercy, come together and from necessity bring forth this third conjunction containing the other two? So sometimes, He [God] will mention each one by name, as in “El, Yahweh, Elohim spoke and called earth” as I have explained, and sometimes He [God] will enumerate two attributes, which implies by necessity the conjunction of the third from the other two, as is written, “On the day Yahweh, Elohim made heaven and earth.”]11

Solomon ibn Adret states that if the three names El, Elohim and Yahweh represent the internal Trinitarian operation of the Dignities that allows creation to take place, as Llull claims, then every time the Bible mentions God as creator and one of these names appears, all three of the names should be referenced. If the three names do not appear, then Llull’s theory of the correlatives is not operable, because one (or two) of the elements of this eternal activity within the Dignities, allowing creation to occur, is missing. For Llull, all three of the persons are essential, whereas, says

11 Translation mine from Teshubot ha-Rashba of the Bodleian Library, Oxford, ms 1587, fols. 93b-94a. I have cited this passage directly from the earliest manuscript. H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 213 [57]

Solomon ibn Adret, according to our understanding, these divine names refer to three different Sefirot which are important for the act of creation, and whether or not the third name is specifically mentioned, it is nonetheless inferred that it necessarily comes forth from the other two. Hence, the three names do not imply an internal and eternal Trinitarian structure within the Sefirot, but rather refer to three of the ten Sefirot that balance the act of creation. Thus, there is no Trinity, but rather a unity in the Godhead.12 Solomon ibn Adret’s use of this theosophical explanation must suggest that he felt that the issue being addressed was important and merited a strong defense, and Llull’s views with regard to the necessity of a Trinity in the Godhead demanded serious rebuttal.13 For the Kabbalists, as well as

12 Compare this with how Adret treats the same issue of the divine names in his Com- mentary on the Legends of the Talmud, a work meant for internal consumption:

יש בזה סוד, וכבר ידעת שבא להם ז"ל בכל מקום שנאמר אלהים מידת הדין, ויו"ד ו"ו ה"י מידת הרחמים, והם כוללים מן העולם ועד העולם, שאי אפשר לעולם להתקיים רק בשתי מידות האלו אבל לא בדין לבד ולא ברחמים לבד, ועל כן לא נזכרו שני שמות הללו בתורה בבריאת העולם עד שנבראו שמים וארץ וכל צבאם כאמרו ביום עשות ה' אלהים ארץ ושמים ואמרו ז"ל שהזכיר שם מלא על עולם מלא. ומי שחננו ה' יתברך דעה ידע וישכיל אמיתת מה שהוא בכח השכל האנושי להשיג באמיתתו יתברך ובמידותיו. [“And in this matter there is a secret [i.e., a Kabbalistic teaching]. And you already know what our Rabbis received, that in every place where it says Elohim, it refers to the attribute of Judgment, and Yud Vav Heh, to the attribute of Mercy, and they contain everything. For it is impossible for this world to exist without these two attributes, however, not with Judgment alone or Mercy alone. And, therefore, these two names were not mentioned in the Torah in relation to the creation of the world, till the heavens and earth and all they contain were created, as it says: ‘On the day Yah- weh, our God made heaven and earth,’ and our Rabbis explained that He said the whole name when the world was whole. And to those whom the Lord has granted knowledge, they will know and intellectualize the truth of what is in the potential of the human intellect to achieve knowledge about His essence and attributes.”] (Adret, Perushei ha-Aggadot 50; translation mine) 13 This vehement defense of the unity of the Godhead by Adret has been noted by Idel, who adds that it is the disciples of Adret who categorically reject interdeical dynamism (Kabbalah 138-139). The importance of Adret’s answer to Llull, as well as the challenge inherent in the Lullian approach, was felt strongly not only among Adret’s disciples in Barcelona but also among those with whom Adret was in contact both in Catalonia and further afield. Reading Adret’s answer as a rebuttal of Llull helps explain the vehemence expressed in the writings of the circle around Adret in their defense of the unity of the Godhead and the denial of any possible plurality or corporeality. This circle, far more than the previous generations, engaged in detailed attempts to show how the Godhead, even with a multiplicity of Sefirot, was, in fact, one. See Hames, Art of Conversion 271-283. [58] 214 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 for Llull, the adoption of Platonic and Neoplatonic terminology was of prime importance for explaining the act of creation as well as man’s relationship to God and the world. Whereas for Llull the inherent metaphysical logic of this system was a Trinitarian one, Solomon ibn Adret and his disciples had to uphold the deeply-held belief in the unity of the God- head. Hence, while Solomon ibn Adret’s response does not seem categorically to undermine Llull’s argument, it does present a doubting Jew with a terminology and language concerning the Godhead with which he was familiar. It was, however, the third protagonist, Abner of Burgos, or Alfonso de Valladolid, who was best able to utilize the analysis of his predecessors and produce a potent argument that seemed to prove the necessity of a Trinitarian God. Born c. 1265 in Burgos, and probably a physician by profession, Abner was deeply influenced by the miraculous appearance of crosses on the clothes of the Jewish participants in a failed messianic movement in Castile in 1295. This vision initiated a series of events, including some dreams, which eventually led to his conversion to Christi- anity and adoption of the name Alfonso around 1320 (See Baer, History of the Jews 1: 327-354; Hecht 26-49; Szpiech 307-329). In some ways, Abner can be considered the first serious missionary to the Jews; not because he is the first person to engage with his own former beliefs and authoritative texts, but because as an apostate, he purposely wrote in a language, Hebrew, that would be understood by his learned Jewish contemporaries and expressly stated that he was writing to convince Jews to convert (Szpiech 167-172, 316).14 He was dangerous because he utilized Christian and other philosophical sources already translated into Hebrew and therefore known to his readers, but these sources were secondary to

This was clearly a concern in the Zohar as well, where there is use of Trinitarian language. See Liebes 140-146. 14 See also the following passage from the start of Mostrador de justicia: “E por amor que las rrazones ssean más paladinas e manifiestas a quien quisiere saber la verdat en ellas, quisse conponer este libro, que lo llamé por nonbre ‘Mostrador de Justiçia’, por mostrar la ffe çierta, e la verdat e la justicia en ella, a los judios, que la avien mester, segund que me ffue dicho, e para rresponder a todas las contradiçiones e las dubdas, o las más dellas, que non pueden ffazer todo judio rrebelde e contrdezidor a las nuestras palabras” [“And in order that reason should be more clarified and manifest for those who desire to know the truth of it, I wished to write this book entitled ‘Teacher of Righteousness,’ to demonstrate the true faith and its truth and justice to the Jews who have need of it as I was told, and to respond to all the contradictions and doubts, or most of them that can be made by any rebellious or contradictory Jew to our words”] (Abner of Burgos 15; translation mine). H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 215 [59] his nuanced reading of the Jewish texts which illuminated Christian truths as he understood them: these truths being, in his opinion, the logical extension and conclusion of his Jewish praxis and tradition. In other words, unlike many previous polemicists, being intimately familiar with the sources and using a language and terminology that his contemporaries understood, Abner arrived at conclusions that could not easily be dismissed out of hand by his Jewish interlocutors. All of Abner’s writing should first and foremost be read as his own attempt to justify his conviction that Christianity is the true faith. Abner’s criticism of Judaism stems from his own awareness of the different schools of Jewish thought and of the complex and ongoing discussions concerning the nature of the Divine. His eventual adoption of Christian beliefs is a reflection of the conclusions he reached after having searched and engaged with the various philosophical and theological schools in his Jew- ish milieu. That said, it is important to realize that Jewish theological debates in this period were informed and fueled by their Christian sur- roundings, and the intellectual borderlines between the faiths in this regard were almost non-existent. The arguments might be framed from within one’s own tradition, but the essence of the issues being explored was the same. Hence, Abner’s adoption of a Christian response to his existential questions, while unacceptable to his Jewish contemporaries, was not necessarily surprising, since it was an extension of his willingness to follow the truth wherever it seemed to lead him. Abner’s main concern seems to have been with representatives of extreme Aristotelianism within contemporary Judaism who read the Torah to justify their philosophical beliefs, not to follow the commandments to the best of their abilities. This led them to heretical beliefs, such as rejecting the notion of Divine Providence (hashgaha peratit) or reward and punishment. It is important to recall that the debate over these issues was on-going in the Jewish communities of Mediterranean Europe for more than a hundred years and had become more sophisticated as translations from Arabic and Latin sources became available and philosophical treatises, commentaries on Maimonides and biblical commentaries were written.15 Clearly, Abner had also been exploring these issues, and his comments indicate that his conversion and acceptance of Christian

15 For an overview of the Maimonidean controversy, see Sarachek; Baer, History of the Jews 1: 96-110; Neuman 2: 117-145; Silver; Halbertal; and Hames, Art of Conversion 31-82. [60] 216 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 dogma was a reaction to the philosophical problems and existential dilem- mas that he faced and provided him a solution to those conflicts. In his writings, Abner suggests that Christians fulfill the commandments of the Torah far better than Jews: e.g., Isaac Polgar, his former disciple and friend, and the author of a number of treatises that contradicted Abner’s ideas (see Belasco iv-vii; Sirat 315-322; Hecht 50-59). According to Abner, the four core beliefs mentioned by Polgar—that there is a first principle, unique, incorporeal and not a faculty in a body—accompanied the Christian doctrine of Divine providence and recompense, which were fundamental to the commandments and their purpose (Hecht 349, 135). In addition, the four aforementioned beliefs are made complete through the Trinity and Incarnation, which bring about human perfection (Hecht 349-354, 135-144).16 The Trinity and the Incarnation were, perhaps unsurprisingly, the two issues that most concerned Abner, and his writings show a constant grappling with these two pivotal dogmas of the Christian faith.17 Abner’s later works present his dialogue with Jewish contemporaries, such as Polgar, and in those writings, his discussion of the Trinity is innovative and challenging. Perhaps one of the most interesting discussions of the Trinity appears in the Hebrew Teshuvot le- Meharef, a response to Isaac Polgar composed around 1340. Here, Abner utilizes Llull’s arguments and translates them into a Jewish context and language in a way that supersedes and dismisses Solomon ibn Adret’s earlier response.

16 Hecht includes a Hebrew edition and English translation of Abner’s Teshuvot le- Meharef (Response to the Blasphemer), which is his response to Polgar’s attack in his Iggeret Teshuvat Apikoros. The following citations are from the Hebrew edition. I also give the relevant pages in the English translation, with some emendations. 17 A recent analysis of Mostrador de justicia has shown that it was the ﬁrst work written after Abner’s public conversion (c. 1322—though he clearly decided to convert after his dream c. 1317) and represents an internal dialogue, not unlike that of his famous medieval predecessor, Petrus Alfonsi, between the Teacher of Righteousness and his previous Jewish self. The central chapter of this long and detailed work is one dealing with the Incarnation. According to Abner, not accepting the Incarnation negates the whole meaning of the Torah, because without the Incarnation, there can be no reward and punishment. The Torah does not reveal this clearly, since, as Abner believed, things are supposed to be revealed over time and the true meaning of the Torah only became apparent after the coming of the Messiah, i.e., Jesus. See Szpiech for a discussion of the polemic on the Trinity (150-240). See Abner of Burgos, in Vol. 1, Chapter 6 on the Incarnation and Chapters 4-5 on the Trinity. H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 217 [61]

Abner takes the same Midrash on Psalm 50:1 that was the basis for Llull’s and Adret’s discussion and explains it. His approach is not that of a Christian trying to use it as an exemplum to demonstrate the existence of the Trinity, but that of a philosopher who exposes its inherent meaning to reveal Christian truth. In other words, Abner is not Llull, who evokes the Midrash as a textual documentation for his doctrine of the correlatives. Since Llull was unfamiliar with the linguistic formulations and their range of meaning, he was unable to explain it perfectly to his audience, and thus allowed Adret to explain it otherwise. Abner embraces the Midrash, as understood by his Jewish contemporaries, to show through its interpretation the Christian truth. Adret’s response to Llull is technical; he uses Jewish terminology unfamiliar to Llull to assuage the doubts of his Jewish audience. Abner does not give his Jewish interlocutors that luxury, in that he uses his familiarity with the language and terminology to demonstrate the inherent necessity of a Trinity in the Divine Unity. Abner cites the aforementioned Midrash and then writes:

ויש להתבונן בזה המאמר כי לא יתכן להיות העולם נברא אלא אם כן היו בבורא אותן שלוש המדות הללו אשר יורו עליהן שלשה שמותיו אל אלהים יהוה מצד שהם שלשה לעצם האלוה האחד. ויורו עליהן אותם שלשה שמות אחרים מצד העניינים עצמם . . . אבל הוא הוא החכמה שלו, והוא הוא התבונה שלו, והוא הדעת שלו. [One must conclude from this passage that the world could not have been created unless the Creator had these three attributes which are indicated by His three names “El, Elohim, YHWH” because they are three (parts) of the one divine substance. They are indicated by those three other names: wisdom, understanding and knowledge, because of their essential characteristics . . . He Himself is His wisdom, and He Him- self is His understanding, and He Himself is His knowledge.] (Hecht 355, 146-147)18

Abner then explains the relevance of these three terms to the three names of God, stating that Wisdom, because of its universality and absoluteness, corresponds to the Father; Understanding, which is born from Wisdom, corresponds to the Son, also calling attention to the grammatical similarity between the Hebrew for ‘son’ (ben) and ‘understanding’ (binah); and Knowledge, representing the result of the relationship between Wisdom הרי :and Understanding, corresponds to the Holy Spirit. He then states לך מדבריהם שיש בעצמותו של קב"ה שלש מדות אשר טעמם כמו שמיחסין Thus, you“] אותן הנוצרים אב ובן ורוח הקדש מבלי הכחשה וכחד ביחודו ב"ה.

18 On Abner’s use of Kabbalistic ideas in his polemical writings, see Baer, “The Use of Kabbalah” 278-289; and Gershenzon 96-100. [62] 218 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 have from their own words that in the substance of the Holy One, blessed be He, there are three attributes whose significance is similar to what the Christians relate to the Father, the Son and Holy Spirit without denial or destruction of His unity”] (Hecht 355-357, 147-151; see also Diamond). Abner relates the attributes and persons of the Trinity to the Divine names in the verse in the following manner: Wisdom and Father to YHWH; Understanding and Son to El; and Knowledge and Holy Spirit כי מורה :to Elohim. He explains that Elohim is in the plural form because על עצמו ועל השנים הנשארים כמו שהערך מורה על עצמו ועל שני הנערכים it“] יחדיו. ובעבור זה היה שם אלהים לבדו מורה על שלשת התארים יחדיו. teaches about itself and the other two, just as the relationship teaches about itself and the two related things altogether. For this reason, the name Elohim by itself teaches about the three attributes together”] (Hecht 357-359, 152-153). Abner then cites a famous source from Genesis Rab- bah, in which Rabbi Simlai explains the plurality of the name Elohim to a heretic, but his students are not satisfied with the answer. Rabbi Levi אלו כת' "קול יי בכחו" אין העולם יכול לעמוד אלא "קול :explains saying [If ‘the voice of the Lord [YHWH] in His power’ [Deut 4:33“] אלהים". had been written, the world could not have stood. Rather, ‘the voice of Elohim’ is written”] (Hecht 359, 154). Abner then explains why this response would have satisfied Rabbi Simlai’s students:

אלא שר' לוי עשה משל מו הקולות לכל הפעולות המשתנות הבאות מאת הב"ה. כי בעבור שאין בעצמו שום ריבוי אמ' הכתוב בלשון יחיד "מדבר מתוך האש" לא "מדברים" בלשון רבים. וכן "ברא אלהים" "ויברא אלהים" ולא "בראו אלהים" ולא "ויבראו אלהים" וכן זולת אלה. אבל בעבור שכחו של הב"ה הוא בלא תכלית בפעל, והעולם מצד שהוא נברא אינו בלא תכלית בפעל, התחייב להיות כחו של הב"ה אשר הוא בלא תכלית בפועל פעל פעולות אין תכלית למספרן זו אחר זו, והם פרטי המציאות כדי שיהיה העולם אחד מצד הכל ובעל תכלית הוא הראוי לבוא מן האחד והוא רבים מצד החלקים הרבים הראוים להיות מאשר הוא כח בלא תכלית. ולזה אמ' ר' לוי "שלא היה העולם יכול לעמוד בכחו של הב"ה". וזה מצד שהוא כח בלי תכלית, ושאין הנבראים בפועל יכולין להיות בלא תכלית, אלא אם כן היה בו שום רבוי משום צד מחייב פעולות רבות ומשתנות כדי שיהיה שם חזק וחלש ושאר השינויים . . . ובכך נתיישבה דעתם של התלמידים באותו פירוש של ר' לוי. כי מן ריבוי התארים העצמיים של הב"ה אשר שם אלהים מורא על שלשתם: והם הכוונה הכללית המשולחת, והכוונה הפרטית המשולחת והערך שביניה, התחייב הריבוי בנבראים מצד האיפשרות שבהן. ושעל כן היה צורך לזכור הכתו' שם אלהים המורה על הרבוי אצל זכרון היחוד . . . ולא יתכן לומר כמו שאמרו קצת מפרשים כי אותן שלוש מדות הן מדת הדין, ומדת הרחמים ומדה מזוגה משתיהן. כי לפי דבריהם לא היה ראוי להיות החכמה מיוחסת למדת רחמים ביחוד ולא למדת הדין ולא לאותה מדה מזוגה ביחוד, וכן התבונה וכן הדעת. אין אחת מהן H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 219 [63]

ראויה להתיחס בייחוד אל אחת מאותן השלש המדות שהזכירו יותר מן האחרת. ועוד שהמדה המזוגה היא יותר ראויה ליחס אליה השם המורה על הרבוי מליחס אותו למדת הדין או למדת הרחמים אשר מהן היה המזוג.

[Rather, Rabbi Levi extended the analogy of the “voices” to all the changing actions emerging from the Holy One, blessed be He. So because there is no multiplicity in His essence, the verse uses the singular form “speaking out of a fire” [Deut 4:33], and not “speaking” [medabrim] in the plural form. Thus, “God [Elohim] created” [Gen 1:1] “and God [Elohim] created” [Gen 1:27] are written, and not “and they the Gods created” or “and they the Gods created” and others besides these. Rather, because the power of the Holy One, blessed be He, is actually infinite and the world—because it is created—is not actually infinite, it must be that the power of the Holy One, which is actually infinite, performs an infinite number of actions one after the other. These are the details of existence in order that the world is one, qua totality and purpose, appropriately coming from the One; and the world is filled with multiplicity by virtue of the many parts which deserve to exist because He is a power without end. This is the reason Rabbi Levi said, “the world would not be able to withstand the power of the Holy One blessed be He.” That is because God is an infinite power, and beings created in actuality (with finite powers) cannot be infinite unless they have a multiplicity of some sort which would necessitate continual diverse actions, so that strength and weakness and other changes would (simultaneously and actually) exist in them . . . And thus, the students were satisfied with the explanation given by Rabbi Levi: For from the multiplicity of the three essential attributes of the Holy One blessed be He which are indicated by the name Elohim: and they are, the absolute universal intention [agent], the absolute particular intention [patient], and the mediating relationship [act], the multiplicity in creation is necessitated. Therefore, there was a need for Scrip- ture to use the name Elohim which indicates multiplicity in the mentioning of unity . . . It is not possible to say, like some of the commentators have said, that these three attributes are the “attribute of justice,” the “attribute of mercy” and the “attribute which is a conjunction of the two of them.” According to their teachings, it would not be fitting for “wisdom” to be united with the “attribute of mercy,” nor to the “attribute of judgment” nor to the attribute which is a conjunction. Likewise “understanding” and likewise “knowledge” neither of them are fitting to be united with one of those three qualities which were mentioned more than any other. Furthermore, it is more fitting to connect the attribute of conjunction to the name which teaches about the multiplicity, than to connect it to the “attribute of judgment” or the “attribute of mercy” from which there is the conjunction.] (Hecht 359- 364, 153-159)

Abner refutes Adret’s reasoning by using the plurality of the Divine name in Hebrew to demonstrate the absolute necessity of that Trinity without which there can be no unity. The three attributes are not separateSefirot , [64] 220 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 nor can the name El (in the singular) represent the attribute of conjunction between judgment and mercy as Solomon ibn Adret claimed. The plurality of the divine name Elohim unites the three elements—agent, patient and act—which are the inherent and necessary Trinity, without which creation could not have taken place. In other words, it is the combination of the eternal internal activity between the three attributes wisdom, understanding and knowledge, connected to the three divine names of which the third, in its plurality, is the conjunction of the other two, which demonstrates the necessary existence of the Trinity. Abner makes much better use of Llull’s correlatives than Llull himself could ever have done: using language and terminology familiar to his audience to create a very powerful argument for the necessary existence of a Trinity that mani- fests true unity without change in the Godhead. In the first chapter of the Mostrador de justicia, Abner lists twelve reasons why a member of one faith, in this case a Jew, would find it difficult to convert to another faith, i.e., Christianity. This list can perhaps be seen as a reflection of Abner’s own tortuous path to conversion. The eleventh reason suggests that conversion might only occur when one has doubts about his/her own faith and is able to find conclusive answers to his doubts in the teachings of the other faith. The problem is that because the doctrines of Christianity are profound, it is difficult to understand them without a good teacher who is himself knowledgeable about those doctrines (Abner of Burgos 47-48). This reflects the similar reasoning found in the arguments of both Adret and Llull regarding conversion from one faith to another.

ומי שיפרידהו ויבדילהו מאמונתו לאמונה אחרת, מחודשת לא לומר בה, על כל פנים צריך לטענות חזקות ולחקירה רבה עד שינצח הוא עצמו מה שהורגל בו בחקירות ילמדהו. וילמדם וישיבם אל לבבו הרבה, ויבחנם בחינה אמתית שהם אמת אין דרך לנטות מהם בשום צד. שאלולי זה היה מחסרון הדעת להמיר גוי אלהיו בטענות חלושות, ולא אפילו בחזקות, עד שיבחנם שאין מקום לפול בו הספק משום צד. [and someone seeking to separate and convert someone from his faith to another faith with which he [the one converting] is unfamiliar, will need, in any case, to present many strong arguments and much investigation till he can overcome [beliefs] to which he is accustomed through his own investigation. He should be taught these [arguments] and he should study and interiorize them in his heart [the soul] many times over and test them faithfully as to whether they are the truth, and that they are not refutable. For without this, it would be lacking in integrity for a person to exchange his God through weak arguments, and not even strong arguments should H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224 221 [65]

[bring] him [to convert] until he has investigated them, and ﬁnds that there is no more room for doubt.] (Adret, Teshubot ha-Rashba 1: 215)19

Llull states repeatedly and emphatically that true conversion cannot occur by force or without a logical and rational understanding of the arguments.20 Abner was certain that his reasoning concerning the Trinity provided the requisite proof needed for conversion, for he not only demonstrated the necessity of the Trinity, but did so through Jewish texts. Abner used the authoritative texts of his former faith as documentation for the truth of Christianity. Unlike most earlier Christian polemicists, who employed those texts to strengthen their own beliefs and religious identity more than for conversion purposes, Abner saw his former faith as revealing the inherent truth of Christianity. Abner stressed the common ground of the two faiths while minimizing their diﬀerences. While this could be interpreted as merely a strategy adopted to encourage the conversion of his former co-religionists, it can be argued that his methodology also reﬂects the complexities of religious conversion and his attempt to remove the distinctions that separate a Jew from a Christian, an Alfonso from an Abner.

19 It is interesting to note that in his Perushei ha-Aggadot, Adret seems to infer the וכל שהקבלה או הנבואה הנחתו לא תנצחנו החקירה, כי החקירה למטה מו :opposite saying ,Anything received or accepted via prophecy will not be contradicted by reason“] הנבואה אבל :because reason is inferior to prophecy”] (103; translation mine). He also says that שיהיה דבר מוכרח מקובל בידינו למה נבטל הקבלה, ואף על פי שהתחייב החקירה הפילוסופית received lore even if philosophical reasoning shows it to be wrong, should not be“] ביטולה abandoned”] (105; translation mine). 20 Liber de convenientia fidei et intellectus in obiecto 2. On this point, see the remarkable first part of Disputatio fidei et intellectus in which Intellect persuades Faith of the importance of being able to prove via necessary reason the truth of the Christian faith (1-7). Intellect tells a story about the missionary (probably Ramon Martí) who manages to convince a Muslim ruler of the errors in Islam, but who is unable to prove the Christian truths and thus earns the scorn of the ruler who feels that he has lost everything and gained nothing. Llull ridicules this approach and strongly emphasizes the need to be able to prove convincingly the Christian faith. See De acquisitione Terrae Sanctae (126-127). [66] 222 H. J. Hames / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 199-224

References

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Ibn Rushd/Averroes and “Islamic” Rationalism

Richard C. Taylor Department of Philosophy, Marquette University, Milwaukee, WI 532021-1881, USA e-mail: [email protected]

Abstract Th e classical rationalist philosophical tradition in Arabic reached its culmination in the writings of the twelfth-century Andalusian Averroes whose translated commentaries on Aristotle conveyed to the Latin West a rationalist approach which signifi cantly challenged and aff ected theological and philosophical thinking in that Christian context. Th at methodology is shown at work in his Fasḷ al-Maqāl or Book of the Distinction of Discourse and the Establishment of the Relation of Religious Law and Philosophy (c. 1280), although the deeply philosophical character of his subtle arguments has gone largely unappreciated. Here the philosophical foundations for his reasoning are exposed to reveal key elements of his rationalism. Th at approach is confi rmed in his assertion in his later Long Commentary on the Metaphysics (c. 1290) that the highest worship of God is to be found fi rst and foremost in the philosophical science of metaphysics rather than in the rituals of religion.

Keywords Rationalism, reason, religion, God, theologians, philosophers, Renaissance, double truth, metaphysics, creation, reﬂ ection, demonstration

Th e classical rationalist philosophical tradition in Arabic, represented by thinkers such as al-Fārābī, Avicenna (Ibn Sīnā) and Averroes (Ibn Rushd), developed and expanded the rationalism of the Greek philosophical tradition into a powerful intellectual tool for seeking out truths concerning God, human beings and the world, independent of religious doctrines and Islamic teachings. Th rough the many scientiﬁ c, medical and philosophical works translated in Toledo and in Sicily by Domingo Gundisalvi, Gerard of Cremona, Michael Scot and others, Christian thinkers in the Latin West learned of the power of human reason to attain truths without the aid of religion (Burnett). Arguably the most sophisticated rationalist tradition was that of Averroes, whose many commentaries on Aristotle’s

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 [70] 226 R. C. Taylor / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 225-235 key works challenged Christian beliefs on God, human nature and reason and exercised a powerful and multifaceted impact on the methods and doctrines of Christian theologians and philosophers in the high Middle Ages. Th e Andalusian philosopher Ibn Rushd or Averroes (c. 1126-1198) has long enjoyed a reputation as a rationalist thinker of the classical Arabic tradition, a view held by his few readers in the Arabic tradition as well as by readers in the Latin West from the early thirteenth century through the Renaissance and beyond. Th e work of Ernest Renan in the nineteenth century on the rationalism of Averroes reﬂ ected this view. In the twentieth century, however, the extent of his rationalism was questioned in the light of some of his religious writings and his status as a qādị̄ , or ‘religious judge,’ in Seville and later in Córdoba where he was grand or head qādị̄ . George Hourani, for example, called attention to Averroes’ piety in the famous Fasḷ al-Maqāl, the title of which Hourani translated as “Th e Decisive Trea- tise, Determining the Nature of the Connection Between Religion and Philosophy” (Averroës, Harmony 44). In an article published in 1978, Hourani highlighted the religious aspects of Averroes’ thought and in the great Tahāfut al-tahāfut (Incoherence of the Incoherence), a work written in refutation of al-Ghazali’s Tahāfut al-falāsifah (Incoherence of the Philoso- phers), even found grounds for believing that Averroes maintained the personal immortality of the human soul in accord with Islamic teachings (Hourani 29-30; see also Marmura 289 and Taylor, “Averroes’ Philosophi- cal Analysis”). Th is sensitivity to Averroes’ status as a Muslim who served the umma or Islamic community for most of his life as lawyer and judge is also found in the analyses of Averroes by current writers such as Alain de Libera in France, Oliver Leaman in the United States and United King- dom and Massimo Campanini in Italy. De Libera has written that Averroes should be understood as asserting a “plurality of rationalities”—or, one might say, realms of discourse—in which philosophy and religion are separate ﬁ elds for distinct rationalities (10-11). Leaman has similarly argued for a diversity of discourses and even has asserted that Averroes reasonably held a doctrine of double truth (Brief Introduction 170, 171-172; Averroes and his Philosophy 195-196; “Averroès, le Kitāb al-nafs et la révolution” and “Ibn Rushd on Happiness and Philosophy”). In Averroè, published in 2007, Campanini (59-81, 107-111) argues for reason and religion as distinct realms of discourse, siding with Leaman against those who argue for a unity of truth in Averroes, that is, a single standard of truth accessible across the boundaries of religious statements and philosophical accounts (see works by Taylor). R. C. Taylor / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 225-235 227 [71]

In what follows, I will propound the view that Averroes is most suitably characterized as a thorough-going rationalist philosopher in the Aristote- lian tradition. For present purposes I will consider the Fasḷ al-Maqāl in depth and restrict my direct consideration of the other works to a passage from the Long Commentary on the Metaphysics of Aristotle, likely written ten or more years later, which serves to show the consistency of Averroes’ rationalist project. I will conclude by setting forth brieﬂ y my understanding of the nature of the very special sort of strong rationalism I ﬁ nd in the work of Averroes, a strong rationalism which he regards as fully compatible with Islam.

Th e Fasḷ al-maqāl wa taqrīr mā baina al-sharīʿa wa ʾl-ḥikma min al- ittisāḷ Th is work, the title of which, following A. El Ghannouchi (145), I prefer to translate as, “Book of the Distinction of Discourse and the Establish- ment of the Relation of Religious Law and Philosophy,” has as its explicit purpose, according to Averroes:

that we investigate [nafḥasụ ] by means of al-nazaṛ of the sort found in religious law [ʿala jiha al-nazaṛ al-sharʿī], whether al-nazaṛ in philosophy and in the sciences of logic is permitted by religious law, prohibited or commanded, either by way of recom- mendation or by way of obligation. (Book of the Decisive Treatise 1)1

Th e precise meaning of al-nazaṛ , as used here, is to be handled with considerable care. In this professedly religious context, it means ‘refl ection,’ in the sense of refl ection on the meanings of scripture and even on God’s creation. However, Averroes the philosopher knew it to have the sense of theoretical refl ection and thought in the context of the Aristotelian division of the sciences into the productive, practical and theoretical, where “theoretical” is rendered in Arabic as al-nazarị̄ , the adjective derived from same root as al-nazaṛ . Th e signifi cance of this point is easily overlooked when one reads the text solely in the context of religious law or sharīʿa. Th e meaning and issue in the present context, however, becomes clear even in the lines that follow immediately. At the outset Averroes draws on the ambiguous sense of al-nazaṛ as (1) religious refl ection on the sharīʿa as the religious law of God and on creation, and also (2) non-religious theoretical study employing a

1 Unless otherwise indicated, translations throughout are mine. [72] 228 R. C. Taylor / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 225-235 philosophical methodology. He then proceeds to explain that nazaṛ is sanctioned insofar as it pursues the study of beings (al-mawjūdāt ), to the extent that they are indicative of the Divine Artisan. He adds that the more perfect the knowledge (al-maʿrifa) of existing things is, the more perfect is the knowledge of the Divine Artisan. On the basis of this he concludes that the consideration of beings (iʿtibār al-mawjūdāt) which al-nazaṛ indicates “is either obligatory or recommended by the religious law [bi ʾl- sharʿi]” (Book of the Decisive Treatise 1). Although al-nazaṛ as religious refl ection is altogether diff erent from philosophical nazaṛ as the philosophical study of the beings of the world taken up in the Aristotelian theoretical sciences of natural philosophy and metaphysics, Averroes implicitly denies that nazaṛ is equivocal and boldly asserts that the terms are essentially synonymous when used in these diff ering contexts. He does precisely the same for qiyās, which can denote either analogical reasoning in religious law or syllogistic argument in philosophy. In the religious and legal context this is the analogical reasoning brought to bear when principles from the Qurʾān and ḥadīth are applied to arguably similar cases in religious law in diff ering circumstances and times. However, in the philosophical context the term qiyās refers not to analogical reasoning but rather to rigorous syllogistic argumentation. Further, writes Averroes, “giving consideration [al-iʿtibār] is nothing more than extracting and deriving what is not known from what is known” (Book of the Decisive Treatise 2), a remark which to the philosophically trained ear is obviously reminiscent of Aristotle’s opening words of the Posterior Analyt- ics: “All teaching and all intellectual learning come about from already existing knowledge” (Aristotle, Posterior Analytics 110).2 In light of this, it is no surprise that he goes on to proclaim that the Qurʾānic injunction, “Give consideration [faʿtabirū], you who have sight” (Book of the Decisive Treatise 2; Qurʾān 59:2), is a call for the use of qiyās—both religious and intellectual qiyās—in the consideration of beings (iʿtibār al-maujūdāt ) and the seeking out of knowledge of beings called for in the religious law (al-sharʿ). Th us, (1) religious law obliges al-nazaṛ , or refl ection on beings; (2) religious law also obliges the consideration of beings through intellect (īʿtibār al-mawjūdāt bi ʾl-ʿaql); and (3) this consideration (al-iʿtibār) consists only of the inferring and drawing out the unknown from the known found in Aris-

2 “All teaching and all intellectual learning is only through pre-existing knowledge” (Kitāb al-taḥlīlāt al-thānīyah 1.1, 71a1). References to Aristotle’s works throughout are given fi rst by book and chapter, followed by Bekker pagination. R. C. Taylor / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 225-235 229 [73] totelian scientifi c method. Further, he adds that: (4) “[I]t is obligatory that we carry out nazaṛ of beings by means of intellectual qiyās (qiyās ʿaqlī)” (Averroës, Book of the Decisive Treatise 2). Here Averroes understands this to be nothing more than philosophical syllogistic: the religious law obliges that we carry out theoretical investigation of all beings by means of intellectual or scientifi c syllogism. Moreover, he writes: (5) “It is clear that this method of al-nazaṛ which the religious law has called for is the most perfect of the kinds of refl ection by the most perfect kind of qiyās, that which is called demonstration [burhān]” (Averroës, Book of the Decisive Treatise 2-3). In this way Averroes sets in place in the opening pages of the Fasḷ al- Maqāl nearly all the pieces of his argument. Philosophical study is not only permitted for those capable of carrying out scientifi c investigation on all the beings of the world insofar as they are indicative of the existence and nature of the Divine Artisan or God, but it is also obligatory. In the language of the philosophers, then, this investigation will be a philosophical study of the beings of the world and of their Cause, God, who is the Arti- san of the universe. Such a study is neither practical nor productive but rather consists of the theoretical science of natural philosophy in the form of physics and cosmology and the manner in which both give indication of the immaterial cause of all, God. In this way the divine nature is to be the ultimate object of study carried out most perfectly in the Aristotelian theoretical sciences of physics (natural science) and metaphysics. Th is is the point of Averroes’ argumentation, though he does not draw out all the implications in the Fasḷ al-Maqāl, a dialectical treatise based on religious law.3 To complete his methodological outline it remains for Averroes to fore- stall the possibility that there could be double truth, one for those who follow religion and religious law and another for those who pursue the understanding of creation and God by the philosophical methods of natural science and metaphysics. Given that there are various sorts of nazaṛ and qiyās, it may be possible that the distinct methods of religious law and philosophical demonstration yield confl icting conclusions on important issues. Despite scholarly assertions of a doctrine of double truth in the work of Averroes (e.g., Leaman, Brief Introduction 171-172), he himself is careful in the Fasḷ al-Maqāl to reject such a notion. As I have shown elsewhere, he does so by baldly rejecting the possibility that demonstrative nazaṛ (al-nazaṛ al-burhānī) can diff er from what is found in religious law (al-sharʿ) and stating that: “Truth does not contradict truth but rather is

3 For Averroes’ distinction of dialectical works from demonstrative works, see his Taha- fot at-tahafot 427-428; trans. Incoherence 1: 257-258. [74] 230 R. C. Taylor / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 225-235 consistent with it and bears witness to it” (Averroës, Book of the Decisive Treatise 9).4 In doing so, however, he elects not to divulge that his remark is nothing but a paraphrase of Aristotle’s Prior Analytics: “li-anna-hu yajibu an yakūna al-ḥaqqu shāhidan li-nafsi-hi wa-mutafaqan min kulli jiha” (Kitāb al-taḥlīlāt al-ūlā 1.32, 47a8-9). Rather, he proceeds to explain how human assertions indicating assent to religious propositions can be contin- gent or necessary by reference to the way in which the assent is generated. Religious law summons all humankind but it does so in three distinct ways. Some are called by way of rhetorical persuasion to provide their assent (al-tasdīq̣ ) through the imagination; others are called to provide assent through dialectical statements based on shared assumptions; and still others are summoned to assent by demonstration (bi ʾl-burhān). Yet, while each gives full assent through the means suitable to the character and skill of each, the assent of the philosopher practicing the art of demonstration is of a distinctly diﬀ erent sort (Averroës, Book of the Decisive Treatise 8). Th is is because neither the emotive grounds of rhetorical persuasion nor the shared assumptions of dialectical reasoning are in themselves founded in what cannot be otherwise, in what is necessary. Only the certainty (al-yaqīn) of demonstrative knowledge consequent upon a validly formed demonstrative syllogism with true premises necessarily yields a conclusion which is incontrovertibly true and known to be true by that very demonstrative reasoning (Aristotle, Kitāb al-taḥlīlāt al-thānīyah 1.2, 71b18-24).5 In those cases where certainty is established by demonstrative syllogism, the conclusion can be overturned neither by apparent contradictory statements in the religious law nor by community consensus (al-ijmāʿ). Consequently, in the case of religious law, Averroes asserts that, where there is diﬀ erence between its apparent sense and the conclusion of a demonstrative syllogism, religious law must be interpreted to be in accord with the necessary truth achieved in demonstration. Further, he writes, if religious law is studied more comprehensively, there will be found state-

4 See also Taylor, “ ‘Truth does not contradict truth.’ ” 5 “By demonstration I mean a syllogism productive of scientifi c knowledge, a syllogism, that is, the grasp of which is eo ipso such knowledge. Assuming then that my thesis as to the nature of scientifi c knowing is correct, the premises of demonstrated knowledge must be true, primary, immediate, better known than and prior to the conclusion, which is further related to them as eff ect to cause. Unless these conditions are satisfi ed, the basic truths will not be ‘appropriate’ to the conclusion. Syllogism there may indeed be without these conditions, but such syllogism, not being productive of scientifi c knowledge, will not be demonstration” (Aristotle, Posterior Analytics 112). R. C. Taylor / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 225-235 231 [75] ments, the apparent sense of which is in accordance with or close to the interpretation required by the demonstrative conclusion (Averroës, Book of the Decisive Treatise 9-10). Averroes goes on to dismiss community consensus saying that, while it has a place in practical matters of action, “consensus is not determined regarding the objects of refl ection [ fī ʾl-nazarīyāṭ or, ‘theoretical matters’]” (Book of the Decisive Treatise 11), because of the epistemological diffi culties of attaining consensus among the learned. Th is point is all the more evident, contends Averroes, since the learned in every era have advanced interpretations of religious law thought unwise to share with all people. While the rationalist character of his account is perhaps evident in light of the preceding texts and remarks, we should note precisely the manner in which it is rationalist and what his rationalism entails. Averroes clearly asserts the primacy of philosophical consideration (iʿtibār) through intellectual syllogistic qiyās ʿaqlī of a demonstrative sort (burhānī) as the proper type of refl ection (al-nazaṛ ) for reaching the most perfect knowledge of God, the Artisan of all beings. Th is is the religious obligation of philosophers and of all who are capable of the highest philosophical refl ection. However, since God summons all human beings in the Qurʾān, those inca- pable of this most perfect sort of knowing follow religious law and the meaning of the Qurʾān as it is available to them, in accordance with their own intellectual and psychological abilities. In his argument, then, Qurʾānic pronouncements and the terms used in them are left to those who do not employ philosophical reasoning. Th ese are individuals who understand qiyās as analogical reasoning employed in the application of statements and principles set forth in the Qurʾān and who understand al-nazaṛ as unsophisticated, non-scientifi c (non-philosophical) refl ection on the world. However, primacy in the knowledge and worship of God lies with the philosopher who has access to proper scientifi c knowledge of the world and thereby also to the nature of its Artisan through natural human reasoning of a compelling demonstrative sort. It does not lie with the religious believer whose knowledge and worship come only from persuasive religious statements in the Qurʾān and other declared sacred sources, the truth of which is not immediately and per se evident. It is precisely this view that Averroes expresses boldly and without reservation in one of his last philosophical works, the Long Commentary on the Metaphysics of Aristotle.

Th e Tafsīr mā baʿd al-tabị̄ ʿa and the Strong Rationalism of Averroes As recent studies have indicated, the dating of the works of Averroes is a very diﬃ cult matter because of the dearth of manuscripts in the original [76] 232 R. C. Taylor / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 225-235

Arabic, the lack of knowledge about how his works were copied and disseminated, and, perhaps most challenging of all, the fact that he revised his works even after they had been released for copying and spread among his readers. Scholarly consensus dates the Long Commentary on the Meta- physics c. 1190 or generally in the last decade of his life. In the second Comment of the ﬁ rst book of his Long Commentary on the Metaphysics of Aristotle, Averroes follows Aristotle in expressing appreciation for the eﬀ orts of predecessors. He then goes on to make a statement fully in accord with what I have expounded here in an Arabic text that was never translated into Latin in the Middle Ages. He writes:

Th e sharīʿa speciﬁ c to the philosophers [al-sharīʿatu ʾl-khāsatụ bi ʾl-ḥukamāʾ ] is the investigation of all beings, since the Creator is not worshipped by a worship more noble than the knowledge of those things that He produced which lead to the knowledge in truth of His essence—may He be exalted! Th at [investigation philosophers undertake] is the most noble of the works belonging to Him and the most favored of them that we do in God’s presence. How great is it to perform this service which is the most noble of services and to take it on with this compliant obedience which is the most sublime of obediences! (Tafsīr mā baʿd at-Ṭ ̣ abīʿat 1: 10.11-10.16)

Th e rationalism of Averroes in the Fasḷ al-Maqāl recognized a plurality of methods of assent to truths concerning both God as Artisan and all the beings formed by the Divine Artisan. Th ere he found to be primary the truth to be garnered by assent through demonstrative syllogistic since, as demonstrative in the strict sense, this constituted the grasp of incontro- vertible truth. In the face of conﬂ ict with the apparent meaning of the religious law, Averroes refused to assert the possibility of a double truth and instead insisted that the apparent meaning of religious law be recognized as incorrect and requiring interpretation of its inner meaning when in conﬂ ict with philosophical demonstration. Since this philosophical method yields truth in the fullest sense regarding God and all beings, the assertion here, while certainly bold if not shockingly blunt, follows in complete accord with the account in the Fasḷ al-Maqāl: the most perfect form of worship is that which attains the most complete knowledge of God and his created works. Th is worship is most fully realized in the Aris- totelian science which is devoted to the study of beings and their cause, God, namely the theoretical science of metaphysics. R. C. Taylor / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 225-235 233 [77]

Conclusion For Averroes the Aristotelian rationalism through which he understood the world was discordant neither with Islam nor with his understanding of the nature of religious belief. Indeed, quite the opposite was the case. Averroes conceived the fullest and most proper human expression of the worship of the Creator as that of the philosopher; at the same time, he fully understood the valuable role of religious law in the lives of all human beings. In his Tahāfut al-tahāfut (or Incoherence of the Incoherence), he writes:

the religions are, according to the philosophers, obligatory, since they lead toward wisdom in a way universal to all human beings, for philosophy only leads a certain number of intelligent people to the knowledge of happiness, and they therefore have to learn wisdom, whereas religions seek the instruction of the masses generally. (Taha- fot at-tahafot 582; trans. Incoherence 1: 360)

According to Averroes, the rationality of philosophy, and of metaphysics in particular, constitutes the fullest form of the apprehension of created beings and of the Creator without thereby diminishing in any way the value of religious law. Indeed he even remarks that:

[I]t belongs to the necessary excellence of a man of learning that he should not despise the doctrines in which he has been brought up, and that he should explain them in the fairest way, and that he should understand that the aim of these doctrines lies in their universal character, not in their particularity, and that, if he expresses a doubt concerning the religious principles in which he has been brought up, or explains them in a way contradictory to the prophets and turns away from their path, he merits more than anyone else that the term unbeliever should be applied to him, and he is liable to the penalty for unbelief in the religion in which he has been brought up. (Tahafot at- tahafot 583; trans. Incoherence 1: 360)

Th us, the strong rationalism of Averroes can only suitably be called an “Islamic” rationalism insofar as he was raised a Muslim and insofar as Islam was for him in his day the fullest human religious expression of the worship which is carried out most perfectly not in the rituals of religion, but in the science of metaphysics.6

6 In his Incoherence of the Incoherence Averroes writes: “[the philosopher] is under obligation to choose the best religion of his period, even when they are all equally true for him, and he must believe that the best will be abrogated by the introduction of a still better” (Tahafot at-tahafot 583; trans. Incoherence 1: 360). Th is paper is a product of the Aquinas and the Arabs Project at Marquette University. I want to express my gratitude to my colleague, Professor David Twetten, and Marquette University graduate student Fuad Rah- mat for valuable discussions of the texts and issues considered here. [78] 234 R. C. Taylor / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 225-235

Given the extremes to which Averroes took his rationalist methodology, it is hardly surprising that he founded no school or tradition of followers in the Arabic philosophical tradition. Indeed, at that time the philosophical tradition had already begun to depart from classical rationalism, merging religious and philosophical teachings to develop what can suitably be called Islamic philosophy. In the Latin West, however, the translated writings of the Arabic classical rationalist philosophers, including Averroes, had a powerful impact on theological doctrines and, as Dag Hasse put it, “led to the transformation of almost all philosophical disciplines in the medieval Latin world” (Hasse). As such, the true heirs of Averroes and the classical rationalism he espoused in Andalusia were the Christians of Europe. Th ese are the scholars who eagerly read the translations and then sought to integrate into their intellectual milieu signifi cant portions of a powerful and challenging rationalism, fully indebted to more philosophically and scientifi cally sophisticated Muslim thinkers from a very diff erent religious and cultural background.

References

Aristotle. Kitāb al-taḥlīlāt al-ūlā. Vol. 1 of Mantiq̣ Aristụ̄ . 1948. ———. Kitāb al-taḥlīlāt al-thānīyah. Vol. 2 of Mantiq̣ Aristụ̄ . 1949. ———. Mantiq̣ Aristụ̄ . Ed. ʿAbd al-Rahmāṇ Badawī. 3 vols. Dirasat Islamiyah 7. Cairo: Matabạ ʿah dār al-kutūb al-Misrīyah,̣ 1948-1952. ———. Posterior Analytics. Trans. R. G. R. Mure. In Th e Basic Works of Aristotle. Ed. Rich- ard Peter McKeon. New York, NY: Random House, 1941. 108-186. Averroës [Ibn Rushd]. Th e Book of the Decisive Treatise Determining the Connection Between the Law and Wisdom: and, Epistle Dedicatory. [Bilingual text.] Trans. Charles E. But- terworth. Islamic Translation Series. Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press, 2001. ———. On the Harmony of Religion and Philosophy. Trans. George Fadlo Hourani. UNESCO Collection of Great Works, Arabic Series. London: Luzac [for the trustees of the “E. J. W. Gibb Memorial”], 1961. ———. Tafsīr mā baʿd at-Ṭ ̣ abīʿat. Ed. Maurice Bouyges. 3 vols. Bibliotheca Arabica Scho- lasticorum, Série Arabe 5.1. Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1938-1952. ———. Tahafot at-tahafot. Ed. Maurice Bouyges. Bibliotheca Arabica Scholasticorum, Série Arabe 3. Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1930. ———. Tahafut al-tahafut (Th e Incoherence of the Incoherence). Trans. Simon van den Bergh. 2 vols. E. J. W. Gibb Memorial, New Series 19. London: Luzac, 1969. Burnett, Charles. “Arabic into Latin: Th e Reception of Arabic Philosophy into Western Europe.” In Th e Cambridge Companion to Arabic Philosophy. Eds. Peter Adamson and Richard C. Taylor. Cambridge Companions to Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. 370-404. R. C. Taylor / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 225-235 235 [79]

Campanini, Massimo. Averroè. Universale Paperbacks Il Mulino 528. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007. El Ghannouchi, A. “Distinction et relation des discours philosophique et religieux chez Ibn Rushd: Fasḷ al maqal ou la double vérité.” In Averroes (1126-1198), oder, der Triumph des Rationalismus: Internationales Symposium anlässlich des 800. Todestages des islamischen Philosophen, Heidelberg, 7-11 Oktober 1998. Ed. Raif Georges Khoury. Heidelberg: Winter, 2002. 139-145. al-Ghazālī. Th e Incoherence of the Philosophers: Tahāfut al-falāsifah, a Parallel English-Arabic Text. Trans. Michael E. Marmura. Islamic Translation Series. Provo, UT: Brigham Young University Press, 1997. Hasse, Dag Nikolaus. “Inﬂ uence of Arabic and Islamic Philosophy on the Latin West.” 19 Sept. 2008. In Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Ed. Edward N. Zalta. Fall 2008 edn. Center for the Study of Language and Information, Stanford University, Stan- ford, CA, 19 Sept. 2008 . Hourani, George F. “Averroès Musulman.” In Multiple Averroès: Actes du Colloque Interna- tional organisé à l’occasion du 850 e anniversaire de la naissance d’Averroès. Paris 20-23 septembre 1976. Ed. Jean Jolivet. Paris: Belles Lettres, 1978. 21-30. Leaman, Oliver. Averroes and his Philosophy. Oxford: Clarendon Press; New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 1988. ———. “Averroès, le Kitāb al-nafs et la révolution de la philosophie occidentale.” In Le Choc Averroès: Comment les philosophes arabes ont fait l’Europe. Travaux de l’Université Européen de la Recherche. Actes du Colloque Averroès, 6-8 février 1991. Special Issue of International de l’Imaginaire 17-18 (1991). Paris: Maison des Cultures du Monde, 1991. 58-65. ———. A Brief Introduction to Islamic Philosophy. Cambridge: Polity Press; Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1999. ———. “Ibn Rushd on Happiness and Philosophy.” Studia Islamica 52 (1980): 167-181. Libera, Alain de. Introduction. Le Livre du discours décisif. Ed. and trans. Marc Geoﬀ roy. Edition Bilingue GF 871. Paris: G. F. Flammarion, 1996. 5-83. Marmura, Michael E. “Some Remarks on Averroes’s Statements on the Soul.” In Averroës and the Enlightenment. Eds. Murad Wahba and Mona Abousenna. Amherst, NY: Pro- metheus Books, 1996. 279-291. Renan, Ernest. Averroès et l’averroïsme: Essai historique. Paris: A. Durand, 1852. Taylor, Richard C. “Averroes’ Philosophical Analysis of Religious Propositions.” In Was ist Philosophie im Mittelalter? Qu’est-ce que la philosophie au Moyen Āge? What is Philosophy in the Middle Ages?: Akten des X. Internationalen Kongresses für mittelalterliche Philoso- phie der Société Internaionale pour l’Étude de la Philosophie Médiévale, 25. bis 30. August 1997 im Erfurt. Eds. Jan Aertsen and Andreas Speer. Miscellanea Mediaevalia 26. Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1998. 888-894. ———. “Averroes: God and the Noble Lie.” In Laudemus viros gloriosos: Essays in Honor of Armand Maurer, CSB. Ed. R. E. Houser. Th omistic Studies. Notre Dame, IN: Univer- sity of Notre Dame Press, 2007. 38-59. ———. “ ‘Truth does not contradict truth’: Averroes and the Unity of Truth.” Topoi 19 (2000): 3-16. Medieval Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture Encounters in Confluence and Dialogue Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 brill.nl/me

Music in Medieval Iberia: Contact, Inﬂ uence and Hybridization

Dwight F. Reynolds Department of Religious Studies, University of California at Santa Barbara, Santa Barbara, CA 93106, USA e-mail: [email protected]

Abstract In the early twentieth century a lively debate raged between scholars who believed that Christian Spanish and French music had developed independent of the musical culture of Muslim Spain and those who argued that Muslim (“Andalusian”) musical traditions had greatly infl uenced the path of Western European music. Th at debate, however, died out in mid-century. Th is essay argues that there are strong reasons for revisiting that discussion: major new evidence has come to light in the past fi fty years; scholars can now evaluate the situation removed from the passionately held positions of earlier writers, and, most importantly, can now move beyond the very limiting paradigm of “infl uence.” Two miniature case studies are presented here—musicians and the history of the “bowed lute” or “fi d- dle”—to demonstrate the great historical complexity of medieval Iberian musical culture and to argue that even the term “hybridization” is too simplistic to describe the “complex genealogies” involved.

Keywords Andalusian music, early music, troubadors, al-Andalus

In the early twentieth century a lively debate raged over the question of whether medieval Andalusian (“Moorish”) music had inﬂ uenced neigh- boring musical traditions such as those of the Occitanian and Catalonian Troubadours (twelfth through thirteenth centuries), the Cantigas de Santa María (thirteenth century), and the Galician Cantigas de amigo (thirteenth through fourteenth centuries; see works by Ribera, Farmer and Anglès). Th is debate died out around the middle of the century, however, and has not been revisited in recent decades. Unlike in the ﬁ eld of poetry, where the discovery of the bilingual Arabic-Romance kharjas provoked a complete re-evaluation of previous assumptions regarding the development of

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 237 [81] the muwashshaḥ and zajal strophic song forms, no similarly dramatic new fi ndings have come to light in the fi eld of medieval Iberian music to re- stoke the fl ames of the earlier discussion (Stern). Th e current state of aff airs might be summarized by saying that both sides appear to have withdrawn from the fi eld claiming victory and subsequently ceased interacting with each other. On the one hand, those who support the hypothesis of “Arab infl uence” often write as if this were a proven fact, while the “European nationalists,” who accept no such infl uence, for their part frequently make no mention in their publications of the Arabs or Muslim Spain other than perhaps to note that the origin of the word lute is traceable to the Arabic word al-ʿūd, reducing the entire issue to a simple question of etymology. Th e debate over Arabo-Andalusian infl uence on the musical traditions of northern Iberia and southern France, however, deserves to be re-engaged, for scholars are much better positioned now to evaluate the extant evidence than were scholars a century ago for several reasons. First, while there has been no single discovery in the fi eld of music to match the impact of the bilingual kharjas in the fi eld of poetry, many new texts pertinent to the study of music have been published and/or translated in recent decades and these cumulatively give a far more detailed and accurate portrayal of musical life in medieval Iberia than was available to earlier scholars. Sec- ond, although the two extreme positions of assuming or rejecting musical infl uence in toto are still alive to a certain degree, there are now many more scholars who are willing to address the evidence in a more even-handed manner, without being motivated purely and simply by “proto-nationalist” agendas. Finally, signifi cant progress can be made simply by pushing the discussion beyond the severely limiting paradigm of “infl uence,” a term which implies not only a unidirectional force but also assumes a particular power relationship (the more “powerful” culture infl uences the “weaker” one) within that process. Th is essay argues that the various relationships that existed from the early medieval period up to the seventeenth century between Arabo- Andalusian music and more northerly musical traditions were far too complex to be narratized as a straightforward history of “infl uence” (or lack thereof), and that even the term hybridization, becoming more and more common in medieval Iberian studies, falls short of capturing the multidi- mensional nature of those relationships. Two examples are examined briefl y here to demonstrate and explore this complexity: fi rst, the role of musicians and singers of medieval Iberia as bearers and purveyors of musical culture; and, second, the introduction and development of the “bowed [82] 238 D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 lute” or “fi ddle” known in various forms and languages as the rabāb, rabel, rebec, rabeu, vielle, and so forth, which were eventually to provide the foundation for nearly all later European bowed string instruments. It is common for these two types of examples (musicians and musical instruments) to be appear anecdotally in works on Iberian history as proof of “infl uence,” though, as we shall see, the documentary evidence itself usually demonstrates only contact. It is therefore worth noting at the outset that historical contact is far more easily proven and that infl uence, like beauty, is frequently in the eye of the beholder. Historical evidence of contact does not necessarily prove infl uence, but merely heightens the possibility of it having occurred. While there are many documented cases of infl uences moving back and forth among diff erent musical traditions, there are also cases of traditions existing side by side without any overt process of infl uence and/or transformation. Th is appears to be particularly true when a musical tradition is perceived to be a constituent part of a communal identity. Most suggestive for the re-construction of the history of music in medieval Iberia is the fact that professional musicians often move back and forth between various traditions and styles without observ- ably transforming them.1

Professional Singers and Musicians Th e enormous Great Book of Songs [Kitāb al-aghānī al-kabīr] of Abūʾl-Faraj al-Isbahānị̄ (897-c. 972) oﬀ ers abundant evidence of the cosmopolitan nature of the world of professional musicians of Arab music from the earliest Islamic period onward (al-Isbahānī).̣ Many of the most highly-regarded singers and musicians were of mixed or foreign origin; most were Muslim (by birth or conversion), but some were Christian, and all of them sang lyrics composed by pagan, Muslim, Christian and Jewish poets. To name but a few of the most famous examples from the ﬁ rst Islamic century, the

1 One need think no further than modern Western societies for demonstrative examples—when an opera singer takes a break from his/her classical career to record an album of Christmas carols, gospel, folk songs or jazz, they do not typically bring those styles and vocal techniques back to the opera stage afterwards. Similarly, although these artists might bring “classical” techniques to their own interpretations of these other forms of music, that operatic “infl uence” does not in turn transform the larger traditions of gospel, jazz, etc., nor is operatic singing as a whole transformed by “contact” with those traditions. Moving between traditions and styles is a common skill among professional musicians of many traditions and “musical bi-culturalism” is not a rare phenomenon. D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 239 [83] singer al-Gharīd was half-Berber; Ibn Misjaḥ and Maʿbad were each half- African; Ibn Surayj was half-Turkish; Ibn Muḥriz, Nashīt and Ṣāʾib Khāthir were of Persian origin; Mālik ibn Abī Samḥ and Ibn Mishʿab were Muslim Arabs; and Ḥ unayn ibn Balūʿ al-Ḥ īrī was a Christian Arab. Th e earliest documentation of singers in al-Andalus reveals a similar mixture of ethnic and religious backgrounds. Until recently the only signifi cant source on the music in the fi rst century after the Muslim conquest of Iberia was al-Maqqarī’s (d. 1632) Th e Scented Breeze from the Tender Branch of al-Andalus and Mention of its Vizier Lisān al-Dīn Ibn al-Khaṭīb [Nafḥ al-Ṭīb min ghuṣn al-Andalus al-raṭīb wa-dhikr wazīrihā Lisān al-Dīn ibn al-Khaṭīb], a compilation on the history and society of al-Andalus drawn almost entirely from earlier sources, many of which have since been lost. Al-Maqqarī cites a number of singers for whom he gives nothing more than a name, with no mention of their ethnic, religious or regional background. For example, he gives the names ʿAllūn and Zarqūn as those of the fi rst two singers to travel from the eastern Mediterranean to the court of Córdoba. In addition he mentions several female slave-singers (jawārī or qiyān) who were trained in Medina before being sold to the emir of Córdoba without giving any further information about their origins. One female slave-singer, however, is given a slightly fuller biographic treatment. Of Christian Basque origin, she was shipped to Medina to be trained as a professional slave-singer, took the “stage name” of Qalam (or ‘reed pen’), and was then sold back to Iberia where she became a favorite at the court of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II in Córdoba:

And in addition to [these others] was the female slave-singer Qalam who was the third, along with Faḍl and ʿAlam, in the favor of the aforementioned Emir [ʿAbd al- Raḥmān]. She was of Andalusian origin, a Christian, from among the Basque captives. As a young girl she was taken East and ended up in Medina, the city of the Prophet— Peace and God’s Blessings upon him!—and there she learned [the art of] singing and mastered it. She was reﬁ ned, clever, possessed a beautiful hand [in calligraphy], was a reciter of poetry, a memorizer of [historical] accounts, and was knowledgeable in all genres of literature. (al-Maqqarī 2: 96-97; translation mine)

Ibn Ḥ ayyān’s account (al-Maqqarī’s main source) also notes that she was the daughter of one of the leaders of the Basques (Ibn Ḥ ayyān 306). Two other noteworthy fi gures in al-Maqqarī’s text are the black singer Ziryāb and the Jewish singer Mansūr.̣ Th e recent publication and translation of the section of Ibn Ḥ ayyān’s al-Muqtabis that contains the biography of the legendary Ziryāb (a section long thought to have been lost), [84] 240 D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 from which al-Maqqarī drew his text, now allows a more judicious evaluation of Ziryāb’s role in Andalusian musical history, a role that had grown to mythic proportions due to the infl uence of al-Maqqarī’s hyperbolic account of his life (Ibn Ḥayyān 307-335; Reynolds, “Al-Maqqarī’s Ziryāb”). Ziryāb is without doubt the single most famous singer in the history of Andalusian music, and it is intriguing to note the variety of diff erent origins that modern scholars have attempted to assign him—Persian, Kurd- ish, Baluchi, Jewish and so forth. Th e fact is, however, that the earliest Andalusian sources make no mention of such exotic origins. Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih (860-940), who was born in Córdoba just months after Ziryāb’s death and grew up surrounded by people who had known Ziryāb person- ally, refers to him unequivocally as a “black slave” [ʿabd aswad] (Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih Part 6: 34). Ibn al-Qūtiyyạ (?-977), another signifi cant early source on Ziryāb, gives no information whatsoever about his origins, while Ibn Ḥ ayyān (987-1076), who off ers the single most detailed account of the life of Ziryāb, makes frequent reference to the jet-black color of his skin and even includes crude jokes on that theme (Ibn al-Qūtiyyạ 83-84; Ibn Ḥ ayyān 307-335). Given the constant reference to his color (one of the few unchanging elements among the various confl icting versions of his life found in medieval sources) and the large number of Africans found in Baghdad at this time, it is diffi cult to imagine why no modern scholar has suggested that he was most likely of African origin; apparently his fame and renown have driven modern authors to seek out a more “prestigious” lineage for this great musician. References to a black-skinned man in Bagh- dad in the ninth century would otherwise normally be taken to refer to an African or someone of African heritage. Al-Maqqarī’s reference to the Jewish musician Mansūṛ (Ibn Ḥ ayyān gives his full name as Abū Mansūṛ ibn Abī l-Buhlūl) as the messenger sent by the emir ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II to welcome Ziryāb to al-Andalus upon his arrival at the port of Algeciras in 822 is equally intriguing. Unfortunately it is not known whether Mansūṛ and his family were originally from the eastern Mediterranean (which would imply that he performed the standard court repertoire of the urban centers of Damascus, Medina and Bagh- dad) or whether he was a descendant of the pre-conquest Jewish community of Iberia. If the latter were the case, this might be taken as evidence that during the fi rst century of Islamic rule over the Peninsula, he had been able to secure professional training in Arabic poetry and singing in al-Andalus, which would speak to a thriving musical scene where local singers could be trained and rise to rank of court musician alongside imported singers who D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 241 [85] had undergone extensive professional training in Medina or elsewhere in the East. In either case, al-Maqqarī and Ibn Ḥ ayyān together give a portrayal of a vibrant musical life at the Cordoban court with some faint suggestions that a certain amount of contact among Christian, Muslim and Jewish musical traditions was taking place, but until now nothing further could be said given the sparse evidence found in these two texts. A fourteenth-century Syrian encyclopedic work which remains in manuscript, however, contains remarkable material that radically changes current ideas about musical life in the Cordoban court under al-Ḥ akam I (r. 806-822) and ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II (822-852). Th is multivolume work compiled by Ibn Faḍlallāh al-ʿUmarī (1301-1349), Th e Paths of Perception among the Kingdoms of the Capitals (Masālik al-abṣār fī mamālik al-amṣār), contains one volume devoted to music. Scholars of music have downplayed the importance of this work because it was thought to consist entirely of information extracted from Abū ʾl-Faraj al-Isbahānī’ṣ tenth-century Great Book of Songs. While this is true for the majority of its contents, it has apparently never been noted among scholars of music history that towards the end of the volume Ibn Faḍlallāh includes a number of biographies of singers and musicians from al-Andalus, North Africa and Egypt, who do not appear in any other surviving texts. In particular, there are eighteen biographies of singers from the periods of al-Ḥ akam I, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II and al-Muʿtamid of Seville. A handful of details from three of these as yet untranslated biographies are especially noteworthy in the context of this discussion.2 Ḥasan ibn ʿAbd ibn Zaylā was from the “opposite shore,” that is, from North Africa, and traveled to Córdoba as a singer. It is not entirely clear from the text whether he actually was, or was only accused of being, a kāfi r (‘unbeliever,’ i.e., a Christian), but in any case he fl ed al-Andalus for the northernmost Christian kingdoms. Many years later he is said to have returned to the sanctuary of Islam, having earned nothing during his long stay in the north “except singing” [“wa-rajiʿa mā kasaba illā al-ghināʾ baʿd tūḷ al-sinīn”], that is, the songs which he then proceeded to perform in al- Andalus (Ibn Faḍlallāh 390-391). Sāʿidah [Sāʿiduh?] ibn Buraym was an Andalusian Christian who converted to Islam and fell in love with singing. He studied it from teachers in Córdoba, eventually mastering this art to such a degree that he was able to

2 Th e full texts of these biographies will appear in Reynolds, Th e Musical Heritage of al- Andalus (forthcoming). [86] 242 D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 travel to the eastern Mediterranean where he performed to acclaim in Cairo, Damascus and Baghdad (Ibn Faḍlallāh 391-392). Salīm was a mawlā (‘client’) of al-Mughīra, son of al-Ḥ akam. When some Christian emissaries arrived in Córdoba from the North, he hosted them, studied their singing, and learned it well [“ ʾakhadha al-taraḅ ʿan rusulin atūhu min qibal al-nasārạ̄ . . . wa-atqana al-fann wa-ḥaqqaqa al- zann”]̣ (Ibn Faḍlallāh 385). When al-Mughīra, Salīm’s patron, was later given an Iraqi female slave-singer as a gift, he sent her to Salīm who learned Iraqī music from her and then set out to combine Iraqi singing with that which had learned from the Christians [“jamaʿa al-ghināʾ al-ʿirāqī maʿa mā jamaʿa”] (Ibn Faḍlallāh 385), which they later performed together in the gatherings of al-Mughīra. All three of these biographies, and particularly the latter, provide evidence that far more contact between Christian and Muslim musical traditions was taking place in the early Umayyad period than had previously been supposed by modern scholars. Th e combined documentation from the works of Ibn Ḥ ayyān, al-Maqqarī and Ibn Faḍlallāh provides us with the names of nearly sixty singers from the reigns of al-Ḥ akam I and ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II and gives signifi cant biographical information for twenty of them. Included are references to Christians who converted to Islam and at least one Muslim who appears to have converted, albeit temporarily, to Christianity. It demonstrates that Jewish, Christian and Muslim singers performed at the Cordoban court already in the late eighth and early ninth centuries, and, most remarkably, off ers an account of a musician who purposefully set out to combine the music of the eastern Mediterranean with that of the northern Christian Iberian kingdoms in the last decades of the ninth century. Th is is a remarkably rich portrait of musical activity, which provides evidence for the full spectrum of contact, infl uence and hybridization. We could scarcely hope for more direct evidence of hybridization than the statement that Salīm set out to combine two musical traditions and then performed the resulting compositions in the gatherings of al- Mughīra in sessions that were “more delicate than the dawn breezes and more aromatic than fragrant trees” [“araqq min nasamāt al-ashār wa-aʿtar min nafahāt al-ashjār”] (Ibn Faḍlallāh 385). A second attempt at blending the musical traditions of the Christians and the eastern Arabs was noted in the thirteenth century by Ahmaḍ al-Tifāshī (1184-1253), who wrote that Ibn Bājja (d. 1138 or 1139), known to the Latins as Avempace, combined “the songs of the Christians with those of the East, thereby inventing a style found only in al-Andalus, toward which the temperament of its D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 243 [87] people inclined, so that they rejected all others” (Liu and Monroe 42). Although it is impossible to reconstruct from these statements the technical details of how these traditions were combined, the fact that we have historical references to two major singer-composers attempting this type of fusion is remarkable indeed. Although no corresponding account of musical life in the Christian north for this early period survives, in later centuries an equally noteworthy variety of performers can be documented in the courts of Castile, León, Navarre, Aragón and Catalonia. Ten years after the death of Alfonso X in 1284, thirteen Arab and one Jewish musician are found among the twenty- seven musicians in the household of his son, Sancho IV of Castile (r. 1284- 1295); thus, more than half of the court’s professional musicians were Andalusians, presumably paid to perform Andalusian music. But this is only the tip of the iceberg, for Moorish and Jewish musicians were also found in the thirteenth-century royal household of Pedro III of Aragón (r. 1276- 1285), as well as in the fourteenth century in the courts of Jaume II of Aragón (r. 1291-1327), Juan I of Aragón (r. 1387-1396), Juan II of Castile (r. 1406-1454), Alfonso IV of Aragón (r. 1327-1336) and Pedro IV of Aragón (r. 1336-1387).3 Th is last king, Pedro IV, in 1337 wrote to Játiva asking that a certain Hali [ʿAli] Ezigua, a juglar (or ‘minstrel’) and rabāb-player, be sent to him. Th e town council of Játiva sent this musician to him along with another, one Çahat [Shahḥ āt]̣ Mascum, a player of the fl ute (ajabeba). Th ey were so successful that the king included them in his household and granted them each an annual salary of 100 sueldos (Menéndez Pidal 267-268). It is important to note that Pedro’s letter off ers evidence not only of the impor- tation of professional musicians, but also of the fact that the reputation of an individual Muslim musician had actually reached the Christian monarch and prompted the royal request that the rabāb-player be sent to him. Similarly, in 1439, a fl ute-player from al-Andalus was sent to the Navarrese court of Olite to perform at the wedding of the Prince of Viana and Ines de Cleves, in the northernmost section of Spain, in a region that had never come under Muslim control (Menéndez Pidal 140). Although it may at fi rst be surprising to fi nd Moorish and Jewish musicians in so many of the northern Christian courts, there is further evidence

3 See the detailed discussion of Moorish and Jewish juglares in the courts of northern Spain in Menéndez Pidal’s Poesia juglaresca y juglares and the numerous citations from original documents found in Gómez Muntané. [88] 244 D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 that indicates an even deeper level of musical contact. In 1322 the Council of Valladolid severely condemned the custom of employing Muslim and Jewish musicians to perform inside churches, particularly during night- long vigils where the singing of songs and the playing of musical instruments were “completely contrary to that for which the vigils had been instituted” (Menéndez Pidal 110, 139; translation mine). Th ere is also abundant evidence of participation by Muslims and Jews in the civil ceremonies of the Christian kingdoms. During the reign of Juan II of Castile (1406-1454), Prince Enrique was to be wed to Princess Blanca, daughter of King Juan of Navarre. In 1440, as she and her mother the queen traveled south for the marriage ceremony, they arrived in the small town of Briviesca, north of Madrid:

where they were solemnly received by all of the inhabitants of the city, each oﬃ cial took out his banner and his entourage as best he could, with great dances and much enjoyment and delight; and after them came the Jews with their Torah and the Mus- lims with their Qurʾan, in the manner that is usually done for Kings who have recently come to the throne in other parts; and there came many trumpets, players of wind instruments, tambourines, and drums [atabales], which made much noise as if a great host were approaching. (Rosell 565; translation mine)

Th is practice appears to have been widespread from the number of mentions found in various sources (Menéndez Pidal 141). María del Carmen Gómez Muntané’s remarkable study of music in the royal courts of Aragón and Catalonia in the fourteenth and fi fteenth centuries demonstrates, however, that Muslim and Jewish singers, musicians and dancers from the south were but a minor part of an impressively eclec- tic mixture of performers that also included minstrels from Provence, France, Germany, Italy and the Netherlands. It appears from the detailed records that Gómez Muntané examined that although there was a certain taste for “things Moorish” from time to time, the infl uence of French, Dutch and German singers was in fact more prevalent. Yet there are indi- cations that “Moorish” music and dance did have an impact not only in Catalonia and Aragón, but also in Castile and León. Th ere exists an account of the royal Castilian court dancing the zambra (Ar. samra) in Valladolid in 1429 at the farewell party for Doña Leanor, sister to the kings of Aragón and Navarre, who was about to travel to Lis- bon to marry the prince of Portugal. Th e Archbishop of Lisbon had come to accompany her on her journey. She asked that he dance a zambra with D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 245 [89] her, but he politely declined saying that if he had known that such an ele- gant lady was going to invite him to dance, he would not have worn his long ecclesiastical robes (Navarro García 11-12). Th e implication of the bishop’s comment appears to be that the zambra was a lively dance that could not be performed easily in his churchly attire. Th is conclusion is borne out by a statement by Francisco López de Gómara, the personal chaplain who accompanied Hernando Cortés during the conquest of the Aztec empire, in which he characterized a particular Aztec dance as being exceedingly lively by comparing it to the Moorish zambra.4 Th e famous memorial of Francisco Núñez Muley, an elderly morisco who pleaded with the Spanish Crown to halt the laws of 1566 that forbade many aspects of morisco culture, provides evidence of the degree to which morisco music and dance had developed into a tradition distinct not only from those of the Christians, but also from those of North Africa and the Ottoman Turks. Th e arguments he off ered are fascinating for what they reveal about the worldview of the moriscos and their acquaintance with other cultures. He argued that the clothing worn by moriscos and their language had nothing to do with religion, since the Christians of the East wore Arab garb and spoke Arabic but were good Christians, clinging to their faith even though surrounded by Muslims. He then argued that if the musical instruments played by the moriscos were somehow tied to Islam, it would therefore be expected that the instruments of the moriscos, the Moroccans and the Turks would be the same, but as was well known, the instruments used by each of these groups were quite distinct, which proved that they could therefore not be linked to religion. Th is distinctiveness of morisco musical instruments and music from those of North Africa would appear to be the result of both extended periods of independent development and centuries of interaction with various musical traditions of the north. In a remarkable anecdote, Núñez Muley noted that in his youth, when Bishop Talavera came to celebrate mass in his hometown of Órgiva, that there was no organ in the church, so Talavera ordered that Moorish musicians perform during the mass at the various moments when the organ would normally have played, and when Talavera said, “dominus vobiscum”

4 Quoted in Stevenson: “Todos los que an visto este vayle dizen que es cosa mucho para ver. Y mejor que la zambra de los moros que es la mejor dança que por aca sabemos” (21). [90] 246 D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 those present responded by saying “il-bara fi ku” [Ar. al-baraka fi kum ‘God’s Blessings be upon you’].5 Th is handful of examples could be multiplied several times over, but the overall image would remain the same. Over a period of nine centuries from 711 to 1610 there is evidence of professional musicians from a variety of diff erent ethnic, religious and regional origins performing diverse musical traditions before patrons and audiences of diverse backgrounds. And this should not be surprising, for it refl ects the situation elsewhere in Europe where minstrels and musicians from diff erent countries commonly wandered from court to court seeking patronage. Th is state of aff airs is only surprising to scholars who have persuaded themselves, despite abundant historical evidence to the contrary, that the cultural boundaries between al-Andalus and its northern neighbors was somehow less permeable and less susceptible to the fl ow of ideas and art forms than the boundaries that separated other realms from one another. In the fi rst half of the twentieth century, scholars of the “European nationalist” school could still argue that Christian and Muslim musical traditions were rarely if ever in contact. Th e amount of historical evidence that has accumulated in the intervening decades, however, has rendered that position intellectually untenable. It is simply no longer possible to argue that these traditions were not in regular and extended contact over many centuries. However, that same new evidence points to a more complicated situation in terms of infl uence, for it is now clear that there is no simple narrative of Arabo-Andalusian music infl uencing the music of the Christian North, but rather evidence of infl uences fl owing in many diff erent directions in diff erent times and places. Although Ibn Faḍlallāh and al-Tifāshī off er rare and remarkable evidence of purposeful hybridization, even that term falls short of describing the complexity of the overall historical reality.

Th e History of the “Bowed Lute” Bowed string instruments are now so common in Western culture that it is easily forgotten that the practice of making music by drawing a bow across a string is of relatively recent origin. It was unknown among the

5 Fernández Manzano, De las melodías 163-165; for a complete version of the events, see Mármol Carvajal. D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 247 [91] ancient civilizations of Rome, Greece, Egypt, Persia or Babylon. Although these cultures possessed many diff erent types of plucked and strummed lutes, the use of the bow was not yet known. Th e idea appears to have originated in Central Asia, perhaps in the region of modern Uzbekistan, and began to spread outwards only in the eighth century. In other words, the diff usion of bowed string instruments occurred at roughly the same time as the Muslim conquest of Iberia. Th ough there is little doubt that the Arabs introduced the new musical idea into the Iberian Peninsula, it should be remembered that the technique was still new to them as well. Th ere are no references to bowed-string instruments in Abū ʾl-Faraj al-Isbahānī’ṣ Great Book of Songs, which has led some scholars to conclude that bowed string instruments were at fi rst used only in folk music and were not played in the caliphal courts (Sawa 150). Th e most common historical narrative regarding the arrival of the “bowed lute” (or “fi ddle”) in Europe is that it was introduced by the Arabs and adopted by northern Iberian Christians who then changed the manner of playing it from a vertical position on the knee to a more horizontal position fi rst against the chest and later on the shoulder, eventually resulting in the posture commonly associated with the modern violin. To begin with, it is true that all of the indigenous descendents of the early “bowed lute” in the countries east of Iberia, from Morocco to Iraq and beyond, are played in a vertical position. It is equally true that one of the earliest known Western images of a bowed string instrument, which dates from the late tenth century, shows the instrument played in a horizontal position off the shoulder.6 Th is image occurs in a Mozarabic manuscript, that is, a manuscript produced by Arabic-speaking Christians from al-Andalus, illustrating Beato’s commentary on the Apocalypse, which was one of the most oft reproduced Mozarabic works in the medieval period. In what may be the earliest Western image of a bowed string instrument, the Seven Plague Angels are shown above and to the left of four musicians playing three-string instruments in ms Vitrina 14-1 from the Biblioteca Nacional Española (Figure 1). Th e instruments here are

6 Th e two earliest images appear to be those in manuscripts preserved in the Biblioteca Nacional Española, Madrid (ms Vit. 14-1) and in the Real Academia de Historia (Cód. 33). Th e precise provenance and dating of the manuscripts is disputed, but the illustrations appear to have been completed at the monastery of San Millán de la Cogolla in the mid to late tenth century; a third early image is found in a manuscript of the Apocalypse of Santo Domingo de Silos from the turn of the twelfth century (British Library, Add. ms 11695). See works by Álvarez Martínez. [92] 248 D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255

Figure 1. Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid, Vitrina 14-1, fol. 130. ©Biblioteca Nacional de Española, Madrid. portrayed as large and unwieldy, still very much “lute-like” in form and size, but played with long, curved bows (perhaps over-sized for eff ect), in a vertical position. In a nearly contemporary image, however, which portrays the Lamb on Mount Zion from Códice 33 of the library of the Real Academia de la Historia (Figure 2), two fi gures on the left side are depicted playing three-string fi ddles held on the shoulder in a position very close to that used for the modern violin, while two other fi gures to the right are shown holding their instruments diagonally against their chests drawing the bow almost vertically across the strings. In both cases the artist has adapted the position so that the instrument could be painted frontally rather than from a less visually interesting side angle. Th e contrast between the vertical position used in North Africa and the Middle East and the horizontal position found in the Mozarabic manuscript (a position which later became common throughout Europe) has led to the assumption that Iberian Christians were responsible for the change in position. Another famous image (Figure 3), this one of sixteenth- century moriscos in Granada, has been seen as confi rmation of this hypothe- D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 249 [93]

Figure 2. Biblioteca de la Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid, Cód. 33, fol. 177. © Biblioteca de la Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. sis. Th e image comes from Weidetz’s Trachtenbuch and shows ﬁ ve moriscos playing music and dancing (Weidetz). In the lower portion of the image a man and a woman dance facing each other while three musicians playing a double kettle-drum, a round metal ring (similar to the modern “triangle”) and a three-string ﬁ ddle accompany [94] 250 D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255

Figure 3. Image from Das Trachtenbuch des Christoph Weiditz von seinen Reisen nach Spanien (1529). Courtesy of the University of California at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA. them in the background. By the sixteenth century, of course, the social situation had been completely reversed, and rather than Arabic-speaking Christians living under Muslim control (Mozarabs), we now fi nd Arabic- and Castilian-speaking converts from Islam (moriscos) living under Chris- tian control. Given the assumption that the horizontal playing position was a Christian innovation, the conclusion has been that this image represents an example of Christian Spanish infl uence on morisco culture. Th e overall narrative has been, therefore, that although the “Moors” introduced the fi ddle to the Iberian Peninsula, Christians transformed it by moving it to the horizontal position, which opened the door to the development of the modern violin family; and that in later centuries this “Christian” technique infl uenced or displaced the vertical position even among the moriscos of southern Spain. One critical piece of evidence, however, throws this simple narrative of infl uence into doubt. Roughly contemporary with the Mozarabic image cited above, and probably several decades older, is an image of a fi ddle- player carved into a capital, which at one time adorned the top of a column in Muslim Córdoba. Th e “capital of the musicians” has been studied D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 251 [95]

Figure 4. © Museo Arqueológico y Etnológico de Córdoba. by a number of scholars, but its implications for the history of bowed string instruments in medieval Iberia seems not yet to have been recognized (Fernández Manzano). Th e capital in question has been dated to the tenth century and is easily recognized as being Cordoban and Umayyad in [96] 252 D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 style and workmanship—it bears the decorative devices of other columns and capitals of the period. Each of the four faces of the capital is adorned with the image of a musician: a lute-player, a fl ute-player, a badly damaged image, which may represent a singer, and a musician playing a bowed fi d- dle. Although the image has been defaced, enough remains of the latter fi gure to make it clear that it is a male musician playing a three-string fi d- dle horizontally across the chest while bowing vertically across the strings. In short, this carving from Muslim Córdoba (Figure 4) depicts exactly the same posture as the two right-side fi gures in the Mozarabic Christian manuscript cited above. We may never be able to pinpoint the exact point in time and the exact location where this new position was fi rst tried out and adopted, but given the evidence of the manuscript and the carved capital, it seems most likely that the Mozarabic artist of the eleventh-century manuscript was portraying a musical practice that had already evolved by the tenth century in Muslim Spain. In addition, it is not the case that this innovation was one stage in a linear development in the history of bowed string instruments, but rather the two positions—vertical and horizontal—continued to exist side by side for centuries with each generating transformations in the overall shape and structure of a series of diff erent instruments. Th e Cantigas de Santa María and later sources off er images of several diff erent bowed string instruments played in both vertical and horizontal positions and exhibit- ing a variety of forms (rounded, ovoid, rectangular, etc.), none of which died out entirely but rather are still found in examples of modern Spanish folk rabeles (as are a variety of diff erent performance postures including vertical postures on or between the knees and horizontal postures against the chest or shoulder).7 Th e history of bowed string instruments from the introduction of the rabāb to the development of late medieval viol family was not a direct or linear development, nor was it attributable to communitarian infl uences. Like so many others, this simple narrative of “infl u- ence” breaks down under scrutiny. Th e introduction and diff usion of the bowed string instruments is a complicated narrative of multiple shapes, positions and techniques existing side by side, undergoing transforma-

7 Th e Fundación Joaquín Díaz (Urueña, Valladolid, Spain) possesses a remarkable collection of rabeles from diﬀ erent regions of northern Spain in a vast array of shapes and sizes, and there are dozens of Spanish and Latin American websites devoted to the construction and performance of the rabel, the texts of rabeladas (songs performed on the rabel), as well as a variety of associations devoted to its preservation. D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 253 [97] tions, traveling from one region to another via musicians of various backgrounds, and surviving into present-day Spanish folk culture in an impressive diversity of forms.

Conclusion In order to critique the then common image of a Europe that had been insulated from any cultural infl uences from medieval Muslim Spain, early twentieth-century scholars such as Ribera, Farmer, Menéndez Pidal and others gathered evidence for a “counter-narrative” of Arab infl uence, which, however necessary it was as a corrective to earlier models, also lent itself to a simplistic narrative of unidirectional infl uence fl owing from Muslim Spain northwards without acknowledging the complexity of cultural contacts and their aftermath. I have attempted here to demonstrate through two brief case studies—musicians and musical instruments—that “infl uence” is too facile a paradigm to describe accurately the interaction of cultures in medieval Iberia, that even the term “hybridization” falls short, and that labels such as Christian, Jewish and Muslim hinder rather than help in reaching an historically accurate understanding of the Iberian Middle Ages. We must instead begin thinking in terms of “complex genealogies” that examine historical documentation removed from the communitarian boundaries that have so often been forced—awkwardly and misguidedly— on the evidence. Perhaps the most productive step that scholars of medieval Iberia could take in the coming decades would be to declare a moratorium on the identifi cation of cultural phenomena as “Jewish,” “Christian” or “Muslim,” and instead study the history and development of medieval Iberian culture without resorting to the terms which so often obscure rather than illuminate the phenomena in question. Th is is certainly true in the fi eld of music history, and I suspect it is true in many other areas of medieval Iberian history as well.

References

Álvarez Martínez, María Rosario. Los instrumentos musicales en la plástica española durante la Edad Media, los cordófonos. 3 vols. Madrid: Universidad Complutense de Madrid, 1982. ———. “La iconografía musical de los Beatos de los siglos X y XI y su procedencia.” Anuario del Departamento del Historia del Arte 5 (1993): 201-218. [98] 254 D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255

Anglès, Higinio. La música de las “Cantigas de Santa María” del rey Alfonso el Sabio. 3 vols. Biblioteca Central, Publicaciones de la Sección de Música 15, 18-19. Barcelona: Biblioteca Central, 1943-1964. Farmer, Henry George. A History of Arabian Music to the XIIIth Century. London: Luzac, 1929. ———. Historical Facts for the Arabian Musical Inﬂ uence. Studies in the Music of the Middle Ages. London: W. Reeves, 1930. Fernández Manzano, Reynaldo. De las melodías del reino nazarí de Granada a las estructuras musicales cristianas: La transformación de las tradiciones musicales hispano-árabes en la Península Ibérica. Biblioteca de Ensayo 4. Granada: Diputación Provincial de Granada, 1985. ———. “Iconografía y otros aspectos de los instrumentos musicales en al-Andalus.” In Música y poesía del sur de al-Andalus: Granada-Sevilla. Eds. Reynaldo Fernández Man- zano and Emilio de Santiago Simón. Barcelona: Lunwerg, 1995. 79-89. Gómez Muntané, María del Carmen. La música en la Casa Real catalano-aragonesa durante los años 1336-1432. Barcelona: A. Bosch, 1979. Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad. Kitāb al-ʿIqd al-farīd. Ed. Aḥmad Amīn, et al. 7 vols. Cairo: Lajnat al-Taʾlīf wa ʾl-Tarjamah wa ʾl-Nashr, 1944-1956. Ibn Faḍlallāh al-ʿUmarī, Abū ʾl-ʿAbbās Aḥmad Ibn-Yaḥyā Shihāb al-Dīn. Masālik al-absāṛ fī mamālik al-amsār.̣ Eds. Fuat Sezgin et al. 30 vols. Manshūrāt maʿhad taʾrīkh al-ʿulūm al-ʿarabiyya wa ʾl-islāmiyya, Silsilah J, ʿUyūn al-turāth mujallad 46. Frankfurt: Maʿhad taʾrīkh al-ʿulūm al-ʿarabiyya wa ʾl-islāmiyya/Publications of the Institute for the His- tory of Arabo-Islamic Sciences, 1988-2001. Ibn Ḥ ayyān, Abū Marwān Ḥ ayyān ibn Khalaf. Al-Sifr al-thānī min kitāb al-muqtabas l-Ibn Ḥ ayyān al-qurtubī.̣ Ed. Mahmūḍ ʿAlī Makkī. Taḥqīq al-turāth 3. Riyad: Markaz al-Mālik Faysal lil-Buhūtḥ wa ʾl-Dirāsāt al-Islāmiyya, 2003. Ibn al-Qūtiyya,̣ Muḥammad ibn ʿUmar. Tārīkh iftitāh ̣ al-Andalus. Beirut: Muʾassasat l-Maʿārif, 1994. al-Isbahānī,̣ Abū ʾl-Faraj. Kitāb al-Aghānī. 4th edn. 24 vols. Cairo: al-Hayʾat al-Misriyyạ al-ʿĀmmah lil-Taʾlīf wa ʾl-Nashr, 1963-1974. Liu, Benjamin M. and James T. Monroe. Ten Hispano-Arabic Strophic Songs in the Modern Oral Tradition: Music and Texts. University of California Publications in Modern Phi- lology 125. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1989. al-Maqqarī, Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad. Analectes sur l’histoire et la littérature des arabes d’Espagne. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1855-1861. 2 vols. Amsterdam: Oriental Press, 1967. Mármol Carvajal, Luis del. Rebelión y castigo de los moriscos. Colección Alcazaba 15. Málaga: Editorial Arguval, 1991. Menéndez Pidal, Ramón. Poesía juglaresca y juglares: Orígenes de las literaturas románicas. 9th edn. Colección Austral, Filología 159. Madrid: Espasa Calpe, 1991. Navarro García, José Luis. Cantes y bailes de Granada. Aldaba Colección 1. Málaga: Edito- rial Arguval, 1993. Reynolds, Dwight F. “Al-Maqqarī’s Ziryāb: Th e Making of a Myth.” Middle Eastern Litera- tures 11.2 (2008): 155-168. ———. Th e Musical Heritage of al-Andalus. Forthcoming. Ribera, Julián. Historia de la música árabe medieval y su inﬂ uencia en la española. Colección de Manuales Hispania, Ser. G, 1. Madrid: Editorial Voluntad, 1927. D. F. Reynolds / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 236-255 255 [99]

———. Music in Ancient Arabia and Spain; being La música de las Cantigas. Trans. and abrg. by Eleanor Hague and Marion Leffi ngwell. London: H. Milford, Oxford Uni- versity Press; Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1929. ———. La música de las cantigas: Estudio sobre su orígen y su naturaleza. Madrid: Tipogra- fía de la Revista de Archivos, 1922. ———. La música andaluza medieval y las canciones de trovadores, troveros y minnesinger. 3 vols. Madrid: Tipografía de la Revista de Archivos, 1923-1925. Rosell, Cayetano, ed. Crónicas de los reyes de Castilla. Vol. 2. Biblioteca de Autores Españo- les 68. Madrid: Atlas, 1953. Sawa, George. Musical Performance Practice in the Early ʿAbbāsid Era, 132-320 AH/ 750- 932 AD. Studies and Texts 92. Toronto: Pontifi cal Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1989. Stern, Samuel M. Les chansons mozarabes: les vers fi naux (kharjas) en espagnol dans les muwas- hshahs arabes et hébreux. Università di Palermo, Istituto di Filologia Romanza, Collezione di Testi l. Palermo: U. Manfredi, 1953. Stevenson, Robert Murrell. Spanish Music in the Age of Columbus. Th e Hague: M. Nijhoff , 1960. Weiditz, Christoph. Das Trachtenbuch des Christoph Weiditz von seinen Reisen nach Spanien (1529) und den Niederlanden (1531/32). Eds. José Luis Casado Soto and Carlos Soler d’Hyver de las Deses. Valencia: Ediciones Grial, 2001.

II. CONTACT THROUGH SOCIETY

Medieval Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture Encounters in Confluence and Dialogue Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 brill.nl/me

Th e Jews and the Origins of Romance Script in Castile: A New Paradigm

Francisco J. Hernández Carleton University, Ottawa, ON, Canada e-mail: [email protected]

Abstract Languages defi ne cultures, and languages are defi ned by the way in which they are written down. Christian, Jewish and Muslim speakers of Spanish, in its early Castilian form, only began to develop their own written code in the fi nal decades of the twelfth century. Th eir eff orts did not follow the organic, evolutionary model that may be applied to oral linguistic change. Instead, they were shaped by individual institutional initiatives responding to specifi c social conditions. Monks belonging to the new twelfth-century orders imported from Languedoc the idea of producing an exclusively Romance code for legal documents in Spain. It was soon taken over and developed by other groups in the hybrid society of medieval Castile. Professional Jewish scribes appear to be amongst the earliest to join the trend and contribute to its success. Th e lack of continuity of Spanish Jewish institutions after the expulsion of 1492 has resulted in the destruction of much of the evidence, but there are enough documents, such as the ones studied here, to testify to their decisive contribution to the “invention” of written Spanish.

Keywords Spanish script, Jewish soferim, Cistercians, Premonstratensians, Mozarabs, nuns, military orders

Th e culture that coalesced at the end of the twelfth century as a result of the interaction of Christians, Jews and Muslims in Castile, at the northern frontier of al-Andalus, brought about an enduring and fundamental change: the coding scheme for representing the lingua franca of the majority, a variety of Romance which had not been written before as such and which would eventually be known as “Spanish.”1 Th e precedents,

1 I am indebted to Professor Ivy Corﬁ s and the anonymous readers of the Editorial Advi- sory Committee and Medieval Encounters for their thoughtful queries and useful suggestions.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 [104] 260 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 appearance and evolution of that orthographic code are relatively well known; but fundamental questions remain about the social mechanisms behind it, about the identity, motives and timelines of those responsible for its invention, of those who adopted it and facilitated its subsequent spread, and of those who resisted it. As a way to understand the complexity of the situation, I propose to reorganize the documentation available in a new conﬁ guration, in a paradigm that, as will be seen, brings the agents of linguistic change into focus, groups as unexpected and diverse as could only have been possible in the hybrid society they inhabited: monks from Languedoc, parish priests from Mozarabic Toledo, Jewish soferim from northern Castile. By the middle of the twelfth century, there were three written languages in Spain, each with its own characteristic script: Arabic in the Islamic south and in Toledo; Latin in the Christian north and in Toledo; and Hebrew throughout the Peninsula and in Toledo. In the north, most spoke Romance language(s) that were not represented by any of those scripts, although a form of Latin was used for the purpose. When kings issued decrees or granted privileges, their chanceries used “medieval Latin.” When towns- people made substantial purchases, donations or wills, their compacts were drafted by notaries who, as notaries still do today, followed pre-existing templates, or formularies, for each type of document, drafted according to the rules of medieval Latin. However, those rules were relaxed or ignored when the notary listed the actual goods involved in the transaction, since he had to refer to lands or objects which the parties involved could only name in the language they spoke: Romance. Th e resulting texts are drafted in a combination of Latin and Romance. Eighteenth-century historians, such as Berganza, abbot of Cardeña (1721-1725) or Vargas Ponce (1760- 1821), would interpret them as intermediate links of a genetic mutation whose end product would be modern Spanish.2 Th anks to the work of Roger Wright, we now know that Romance had been spoken for centuries; but written Latin, with occasional infusions of Romance lexicon, continued to lend gravitas to royal acts and commercial transactions.

2 A title deed describing the lands given by several individuals to the monastery of Cardeña in 1173 and penned by a notary called Gerald (“Giraldus scripsit”), is described as an “escritura . . . la qual da a entender cómo era el Idioma antiguo vulgar, y que se originó del lenguaje latino” (Berganza 2: 460). José Vargas Ponce noticed that it was precisely in the “contratos y donadíos entre particulares” where “empezó el Castellano a dexarse ver, allá hacia el onceno siglo,” although the text he presents as evidence is not an original from the eleventh century, but a modern translation (32). F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 261 [105]

Th e situation could have gone on much longer, as it basically did in Portugal, as well as in papal Rome (Costa; Martins; Bresslau 957-977), but towards the end of the century, a number of notaries/scribes abandoned their Latin formularies and began to use new ones prepared in a diff erent code, which was also to be used in the variable parts of the documents. Th is code was designed specifi cally to give written form to the spoken language, by imposing a Romance morphology and by avoiding most abbreviation symbols, shorthand conventions which could very well have been maintained but were initially rejected seemingly to avoid ambigui- ties. Th e phenomenon was neither an inevitable step nor a linear movement in an evolutionary process. In some places it was clearly rejected, but it was successful in some urban centers and was eventually embraced by the Crown, to such an extent that further impulses to refi ne it came from the royal chancery.3 As I intend to show, the movement began in the 1180s and was eff ectively completed by the 1220s. Th e record also shows that several institutional forces were at work in a complex series of initiatives leading to the invention of written Spanish. In addition, I contend, beyond the impact of monastic and/or court needs and concerns for recordkeeping, the presence by Jewish scribes writing Romance documents is key to the rise of Penin- sular Romance script.

Th e Jewish Charters from Aguilar Th ere exist Jewish documents dating from 1187, 1219 and 1220, written for and, until modern times, kept by the great monastery of Santa María in Aguilar de Campoo, of the Order of Canons Regular of Prémontré, located in the northwestern tip of Castile, just south of the Cantabrian mountains, close to the old kingdom of León, but at the time belonging to the diocese of Burgos (Hernández, Rentas 2: 75, 82), a fact of some sig- niﬁ cance given the linguistic activity visible in this episcopal town by the turn of the twelth century. Th e oldest Jewish document, dated 1187, was also copied in the monastery’s cartulary (Appendix A; Figures 1 and 2). Before considering both versions, it is important to look at the two later documents of 1219 and

3 Its earliest products were the text of the Treaty of Cabreros of 1206 (Wright, El Trat- ado) and the “posturas” of 1207 (ed. Hernández, “Las Cortes” and “Sobre los orígenes”). [106] 262 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

1220 (Appendices B and C; Figures 3 and 4). In 1219 the widow Orosol and her son Isaac sell their shares in certain Aguilar mills. Th e following year the same Isaac, now with his wife, also called Orosol, again sells shares in other local mills. Th e wording of the documents is analogous, which suggests that the anonymous scribe who originally drafted the documents used a same standard form, which he knew as part of his professional training.4 Th e documents were written in a variant form of the Castilian Romance code, similar to that found in a number of older contracts in Aguilar’s monastic archive; however, their model was diff erent. Th e documents follow the traditions of the Jewish soferim and not those of lay or ecclesiastic Christian notaries. Th e soferim, who served the Diaspora communities from Alexandria to Barcelona and beyond, were trained in rabbinical schools and kept uni- form traditions throughout the Mediterranean regions. Th eir legal traditions, and the formulas used to implement them, were quite diff erent from those used in the West under the general framework of Roman law (Goit- ein and Sanders, Vol. 5; Burns; Hernández, “El testamento”). A good example of those diff erences is the role played by the witnesses in sale contracts and wills. In medieval Jewish documents, they appear at the beginning, speaking in the grammatical fi rst person (“we, the authorized witnesses were called by so and so, who said . . .”). Th e witnesses then report what others say, using the third person (“they said to us that . . .”). Th ey then guarantee the legality of their actions with a series of deliberately redundant formulas, and fi nally state their names. Alternatively, the persons who buy, sell or bequeath are the ones who speak fi rst and are heard throughout in Latin documents. Th e witnesses are only mentioned at the end and simply guarantee that what is written is what was said, nothing more. Jewish contracts also have certain ritual words that are required for the documents to be acceptable. Two are specially important in our texts: quiñán, quinyán (or kinyan in modern English orthography), a semi- ceremonial word which Aguilar’s soferim kept in its original Hebrew and signifi ed the fi rm resolve and fi xed intention of those who entered into the contract (Herzog 2: 14, 35 ff .); and peine or peño, a Romance word which signifi es ‘deposit’ or ‘full payment’ (Wanner 1367-1384). Th e use of those words and other specifi c formulas, clearly due to the use of a common

4 Both were drafted by the same person, or by two with the same training. “Guerson fi jo de Juceph el Guer,” witness of both documents, may be also the scribe. F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 263 [107] template, is immediately visible when the texts are compared (see Appen- dices C and D). In the case of the 1220 document, the names of the Jewish witnesses are followed by those of two Christians, who reinforce the validity of the document in an interfaith context. A further point to be stressed is that one of those Christians declares having read the contract, which means that the Jewish scribes had produced a Romance version that he could understand—the very text that we have in the copy made for Aguilar’s cartulary. If we look again at the 1187 document, we will notice that the protago- nists are also Jews, but in contrast with the later texts, what we have is not one but three contracts, all on the same sheet of parchment, and they are so short that they seem to be summaries rather than full documents. At the end, a priest called Martín claims to have written all of the above. How- ever, it seems that the summaries have been written by diff erent hands, with diff erent inks, at diff erent times (see Figure 1). Th eir layout may be schematically represented in the following diagram:

[I] Ego mael . . . [tear1] [2] madre . . . [2] [3] mari . . . [3]

[4] [(col. 1) 36 witnesses (2)] [(col. 2) Regnant rex [(col. 3) witnesses (1)] |Era [.ma.cca.xxa.va.| alfonſus . . . [5] [6] [7] [8] [III] Fide petro peniella . . . [9] [2] [10] [3] [11] [4] [5] [II] Jõns ﬁ lio . . . 2) martin ab͂b teste. 3) 4) martinus p͂ſb͂r. literas 5) feč. τ test[e] en istas 6) cõpras que testimonia4 7) iud[eos] τxp͂ianos. [108] 264 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

Th e fi rst text [I] was written expecting to need more space than was eventually used. Th e actual contract only fi lls the fi rst three lines, leaving a blank space, later used for fi fteen more lines, which suggests that the scribe assumed an original text of approximately eighteen lines. However once he began to write, he must have reduced the text by eliminating formulas redundant to him and his legal tradition. Th ere are, in fact, two tell-tale mistakes in the very fi rst line that suggest this process: one that led to errors that the cartulary copyist tries to amend as best he can (see Appen- dix A, I). Th e fi rst copyist of 1187 seems to have edited a Jewish contract following Latin notarial practice, eliminating the witnesses and presenting the sellers as the subjects of the fi rst sentence, but forgetting to change the corresponding verb, which should have adopted a fi rst person form. Th e scribe retains the third person plural (facen ‘they do’), used by Jewish witnesses to describe the sellers’ actions. As he continues, the incompetent Christian then makes more mistakes, which he tries to fi x with interlinear additions; but at least he maintains the early Romance code used by his exemplar. At the end the copyist does mention the Jewish witnesses: Zac Baua and Zac de Castro, followed by four more Christian witnesses, as in the case of the later 1220 document. Th is short list—which is placed in a cell to the right of the date and the mention of the reigning monarchs and court offi cials—is off set on the left side by a much larger cell, with thirty-six additional witnesses, nine of whom are Jews, including Zac Baba again. All of which suggests that this list represents a second juridical action, cor- roborating the fi rst purchase agreement with Christians, one of whom guarantees that the goods are unencumbered (“Domingo marido de stephanie, fi diador por ferlo sano” [Appendix A, I, col. 1]). Th e agreement and its corroboration are followed by the reports of two other contracts (II and III), rendered in the same telegraphic style. Th e 1187 text seems to echo three original Jewish contracts written in Romance, in a language similar to that used in 1219 and 1220. Aside from certain words and formulaic expressions borrowed from Hebrew and Talmudic law, that language is a form of Castilian Romance with some Catalan- Provençal traits, such as the possessive lur (

5 Orígenes del español § 64/3 and 67/4. F. Fita had already pointed out that these texts F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 265 [109]

In the period around 1200, the documents’ linguistic oddities need to be read diﬀ erently. While the texts suggest that the Aguilar Jews were part of the wave of Catalan-Provençal settlers (noblemen, merchants, masons, monks and many more) who ﬂ ooded central Spain in the second half of the twelfth century (Valous; Defourneaux; Lomax; Barton, “Th e Count,” “Two Catalan Magnates” and Th e Aristocracy), the question still remains as to how and where the idea of writing in a new Romance code emerged.

Changing the Paradigm: Th e Institutional Context To answer that question it is necessary to place the Jewish documents in their institutional and geographic setting. Almost a century ago, Menén- dez Pidal attempted to trace the origins of Spanish by collecting the oldest Romance writings that he could fi nd from the old kingdom of Castile. He published the most representative in his Documentos lingüísticos (1919, reprinted in 1966), a collection he later amplifi ed in his Orígenes del espa- ñol (1926) and in the Crestomatía (1965), prepared with Lapesa’s assistance. Th is collection has been somewhat expanded, amplifi ed and supplemented by others, but never challenged as the appropriate model to understand the growth of “Spanish.” Pidal’s Documentos included 372 notarial texts, dated between 1044 and 1492, which were to represent the evolution of Romance in the central kingdom of Castile, but he did not organize those documents in a single chronological sequence. Instead he grouped them into fi fteen synchronic groups that suggest the diff erent varieties of the central Romance, from Castilian to Andalusian.6 However, Pidal drew the regional boundaries based on those he knew, some of which had tenuous historical basis, and ignored the old, but more relevant, ecclesiastical divisions. What Pidal calls northern Castile, La Montaña or La Rioja, would not have been recognized as true regions by the men and women who lived there. Pidal was trying to adapt a paradigm proposed for medieval France by Paul Meyer, who published his monumental Documents Linguistiques du Midi de la France in 1909—a project meant eventually to cover the whole country but which still awaits show an “inesperada relación con los idiomas lemosín, francés e italiano” (“Aguilar de Campóo” 344). Lleal argues against the label of “Judeo-Spanish” for these texts (199-205). 6 Th ese regions are: La Montaña, Campoo, Castilla del Norte, Rioja (Alta y Baja), Álava, Burgos, Osma, Valladolid-Cerrato, Segovia-Ávila, Sigüenza, Toledo, Cuenca, Plasen- cia, Andalucía, Murcia. [110] 266 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 completion today, a century later. Meyer’s basic idea was to take the most objective (or positivistic) aspects of notarial documents—their date and place of issue—and use them as the spatial and temporal coordinates on which to plot a “scientifi c” reconstruction of linguistic evolution. Th e idea may be valid applied to a country with abundant local documentation, where the resulting data could be used to draw a linguistic map, with isogloss and isograph lines, but the evidence from Castile was not suffi cient to work with such a model. Very rarely do municipal and parish archives contain local texts prior to 1200, when the linguistic revolution occurs. Evidence has to be sought where Pidal himself found it, in cathedral and monastic archives, whether in situ or in the Clero section of the Madrid National Archives. By classifying the documents by the place where they were issued and date, Pidal disregarded the fact that clerks and bureaucrats tend to write according to the conventions of the institution that educated them and may be oblivious of the language spoken around them, whether at home or abroad. For instance, Pidal published a letter written in the Basque city of Vitoria in 1277 as an example of the Castilian language spoken in that city, notwithstanding the fact that it was written for King Alfonso X by Juan Pérez, son of Millán Pérez de Ayllón, a second-generation chancery clerk who had grown up in Alfonso’s court and who probably would have had a hard time understanding the language spoken in the streets of Vito- ria (Menéndez Pidal, Documentos num. 140). Th at and other examples suggest that the scientifi c mirage of the socio- temporal model made Pidal ignore considerations such as the mobility of high-ranking clerks, the weight of precedent in scriptoria and archival collections and the normative power of centers of learning. What matters is not where you write, but where you learned to write. When all things are considered, the place of issue seems irrelevant to trace the transformation of script and scriptural cultures. If we focus on the institution that issued or collected the documents, we obtain more useful data to complement the production date. For example, Pidal uses twelve documents from the Benedictine monastery of Oña to illustrate the evolution of Romance in northern Castile (texts dating from 993 [Crestomatía 34], 1011 and 1144 [Orígenes 33, 38], 1085 [Crestomatía 28] and 1102 [Documentos num. 36]) and Burgos (Documentos num. 148). Th e fi rst fi ve, dating between 993 and 1102, predate the implementation of the 1080 reform and are written in a proto-Romance code with Visigothic script. Four (nums. 37, 38, 148 and 39), dated 1127, 1144, 1146 and post-1157, respectively, are notarial F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 267 [111]

Latin texts with embedded land surveys, which are the only sections with some vernacular wording. It is interesting that in the latter Pidal repro- duces only the Romance surveys and omits the Latin frame, distorting the record in the process.7 Th e fi rst Oña text he prints in its entirety (num. 41) is yet another land survey, an undated notitia he dates as 1202. Th e fi rst undisputed Romance texts from the monastery date from 1212 and 1213 (Documentos nums. 42 and 46). Rather than texts illustrating the language spoken in northern Castile, what we have in these texts are samples of the scriptural culture of Oña, and evidence of the monastery’s reluctance to accept the Romance reform, which other centers had initiated and embraced by the 1180s. Th e case of Pidal’s “Burgos” is even more interesting. Of the twenty- three documents he off ers for 1100-1220, only fi ve are from the cathedral archive (Documentos num. 153 [dated 1197], 154 [1200], 157 [1206], 161 [1209], 164 [1214]); even then, the oldest was drafted at the request of the abbess of Las Huelgas and the other four are not originals, but mid- thirteenth-century copies. For early Romance, his best data come from the Cistercian convent of Las Huelgas where documents displaying a fully formed code appear since 1188 (Documentos num. 152 [dated 1188], 153 [1197], 160 [1209], 162 [1211], 163 [1213], 168 [1220]). Such evidence suggests at least two distinct scriptural cultures in Burgos, represented by the Cistercian nuns, who embraced linguistic reform, and the cathedral, which resisted it. Th e situation is not very diff erent in “Toledo” if we concentrate on the use of Romance and leave aside the survival of Arabic as the main notarial language of the Mozarabic majority.8 Th e city’s great cathedral archive, where Pidal only identifi ed three early Romance documents, dated between 1191 and 1221, was not very helpful to him.9 Much more rewarding

7 Th e document dated 1146 is number 148, which Pidal inexplicably uses for “Burgos”: Count Rodrigo and Elvira, his wife, give Oña a series of territories, whose description includes some Romance words (Pidal prints less than a third of the full text, which has been edited by Álamo, Colección 1: num. 198). For full texts, see, in the same work, nums. 157, 193, 222. Th e last one is dated in 1156 by Álamo and Pidal but seems drafted after the death of Alfonso VII (29 August 1157). 8 It continued to be so until 1300. See Hernández, “Language” and “Historia.” 9 Documentos nums. 261 [dated 1191], 271 [1213] and 274 [1221]. While preparing my Cartularios, I became aware of the scarcity of Romance texts in the Archivo Catedral de Toledo before the second decade of the thirteenth century. [112] 268 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 was the Toledan branch of the Order of Calatrava, affi liated to the Cister- cian Order, with fourteen documents, including Romance texts dating from 1194. As in Burgos, the Cistercian nuns of San Clemente demonstrate their acceptance of the Romance code by 1206 (Documentos nums. 266 [dated 1206], 268 [1210], 272 [1215], 273 [1215], 275 [1225]). In other words, in Pidal’s collection what he calls “northern Castile,” “Burgos,” “Toledo” or “Campó” refl ects the collections of the Benedictines of Oña, the Cistercians of Las Huelgas and Calatrava, and the Premonstra- tensians of Aguilar. It is true that institutions kept documents issued by others. If issued by alien scriptoria, the credit should naturally go to them, as in the case of the Huelgas document from 1197 kept in Burgos Cathe- dral; but instruments where others recognized the rights of a particular institution were often drafted by that institution’s own scriptorium, as has been shown in relation to the abbey of Fitero (Monterde Albiac 165, 169). At the same time, as texts accumulated in archives and became the institutional memory, they also acquired an exemplary, even normative, role as models for future documents, developing a specifi c scriptural culture. When tracing the evolution of Romance, Menéndez Pidal recreated the extant documents with remarkable precision, but rather than link them to the twelfth- and thirteenth-century context, he placed them in the geography of a nineteenth-century Spain that grew out of the expropriation of church lands in the 1840s. By erasing the institutional (mostly ecclesiastical) context, Pidal erased the evidence that could have provided clues to the reasons and channels of change. Th us, the shift from a Latin to a Romance code continues to be an unsolved mystery. Ángel López García (who has most lucidly explained how Romance took over from Latin by keeping its syntax but imposing a new morphology and a somewhat diff erent lexicon) asks himself why the change took place. His conclusion is that “we will never know” (190). Nevertheless, we may be able to understand the change better if we modify Pidal’s spatio-temporal paradigm, discarding the “place-of-issue” category and replacing it with “issuing-institution”—to include the centers that produced and infl uenced the documentary evidence. Instead of dialectal groupings, we will now see how specifi c script-cultures evolved by the end of the twelfth century, sometimes displaying contradictory trends in the same town (Burgos Cathedral vs. Las Huelgas), sometimes refusing to evolve (Oña, San Millán), sometimes fostering change (Aguilar, Cala- trava). F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 269 [113]

Th e 1080 Reform To understand the reform here under study, it is important to discuss another crucial moment in the scriptural history of the western Hispanic kingdoms. I refer to the 1080 Council of Burgos and its aftermath. Up to that time, the books and notarial texts produced in the same region could be described as having two general characteristics. Th ey were written in a distinct Hispanic script, called “Visigothic,” which was quite diff erent from the Caroline minuscule, predominant in western Europe. Th e notaries’ written “Latin” was also diff erent. Romance morphology and lexicon were clearly predominant whenever they ventured outside the formulas provided by Late Antique models (Gil). Roger Wright’s observation regarding later Leonese notaries also applies to this period: they likely read out loud their “Latin” texts to their clients as Romance, making a few simple adjustments: a hypothesis that can be challenged if interpreted too rigidly, but which makes perfect sense if allowances for paraphrasing are made (Wright, Late Latin 211; Walsh 206; López García 35; Penny 222). As is well known, the decrees of the 1080 Burgos council, preceded by earlier measures and reinforced in León ten years later, radically altered the writing code and infl uence of proto-Romance Latin. King Alfonso VI accepted the compromise worked out between Cluny and Pope Gregory VII. Having his imperialistic designs condoned by Rome, he accepted the suppression of the Hispanic or “Mozarabic” rite (Serrano 1: 80; Linehan 120). Th is meant that the old church books were useless and had to be replaced by imported ones or copies thereof. Some were at fi rst written in Visigothic script, but soon all penned in foreign Caroline script and written in proper medieval Latin, according to the rules laid down by Alcuin (Wright, Late Latin 105-106; Millares Carlo and Ruiz Asencio 1: 141- 143; Walker 60). Slowly but surely Visigothic script and proto-Romance Latin were displaced from the main cathedrals and the great Benedictine abbeys (Sahagún, Carrión, Oña, Silos, San Millán).10 Resistance was forcefully quelled, burning old books (Walker 33, 226) and expelling recalcitrant clerics.11 Foreigners were recruited, locals re-educated (Fletcher 26, Walker

10 Th e process was completed by 1125 in Sahagún (Shailor 44); it took much longer in Toledo, where a few parishes managed to preserve the old liturgy (Mundó). 11 Alfonso VI refers to strong resistance to the change in his letter to Abbot Hugh of Cluny of July 1077 (Gambra 123 num. 47). Th e rebellion and expulsion of Toledo clerics [114] 270 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

63), and the old texts eventually became incomprehensible in the cathedrals and abbeys of the land. However, proto-Romance Latin survived in urban and rural notarial practices, disguised with a few cosmetic traits, borrowed from formularies following the rules of the more respectable foreign code. Th e local notaries could ill aﬀ ord to interrupt the continuity of the cadastral system of property rolls, which was the main reason for their very existence. However, at the higher ecclesiastical and courtly level, the impact of the Cluniac reform was quite dramatic. Its consequences can clearly be seen in the cartularies of Valpuesta. Valpuesta was a remote Castilian episcopal see, restored in 804 by Alfonso II as a bulwark against the expansionistic ambitions of the kingdom of Navarre. Th e Navarrese peril had long passed by 1080, and now Alfonso VI moved the see to the more strategically viable city of Burgos, where he had just presided over the episcopal council.12 Valpuesta then became a rural enclave. In an attempt to preserve the properties they had left, the clergy compiled a register in which they copied or attached their most cherished documents, and they did it the only way they knew—by reproducing their old script and their proto-Romance Latin. Th is register was completed towards 1087 (it is the oldest cartulary in Spain) and pre- dates the full implementation of the Cluniac reform adopted seven years earlier in Burgos. A century and a half later, when even Valpuesta had accepted and assimilated the reform, a new copy of the old register was commissioned, probably to make the texts available to the many who found the old version hard to decipher. Even the professional copyist entrusted with the project had a hard time making sense of the old texts.13 Although by the time of the 1236 copy a Romance code was fully developed and in use, Valpuesta,

c. 1095 are described by Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada 209-210, VI: 26. Th e change of rite and script was far more complex and problematic than it is possible to sketch here (see Shailor; Walker). 12 Alfonso VI forced the move to Burgos when he off ered the church and palatial residence that his father had built there to the bishop of Valpuesta in 1081 (Serrano 1: 310). Serrano also publishes the 1081 deed (3: 61-62 num. 23; also Garrido Garrido num. 37). 13 Th e Valpuesta cartularies are preserved in Archivo Histórico Nacional, Códice 1166 (“Becerro gótico.” prior to 1087) and 1167 (copy of a 1236 text). Texts are in Barrau- Dihigo num. 13 and Pérez Soler num. 13. Th e cartularies’ lexicon was incorporated by Menéndez Pidal and Lapesa in their Léxico hispánico primitivo. F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 271 [115] like the metropolitan church of Burgos, and in contrast with other monastic institutions, preferred the reformed Latin it had embraced. Both cartularies are ostensibly written in “Latin,” but belong to two very diff erent script cultures, as becomes apparent if we look at one of the texts, dated 18 February 935. It was copied twice in the older compilation, by two diff erent hands, giving us complementary witnesses of the same tradition. As was to be expected, there are a few diff erences between them since they are variations within the same system, in contrast with the 1236 copy.14

Old cartulary (1st version) Old cartulary (2nd version) 1236 cartulary AHN, ms 1166, fol. 110r-v. AHN, ms 1166, fols. 5v-6r. AHN, ms 1167, fols. 9v-10r.

Jn dı ͂nm͂e ego gutier tibi Jn dı ͂nm͂e ego gutier· tibi [J]n dei nomine. Ego tibi emptori meo ﻭemtori meo emtori meo Guterri didacuſ ep͂ſpo | Didacuſ | ep͂ſ· Didaco ||[fol. 10r] epiſcopo. s s placui· noui· adq conueni· placui· noui· atq conueni· placui. noui. atq3 conueni. ut ut uindere tibi et ad tuoſ | ut uinderem tibi | et ad uenðem tibi et tuis uineam in ﻭgaſalianeſ· uinea İn liciniana tuoſ gaſalianeſ· uinea İn gaſalianib de limite ad limite | liciniana· de | limite ad liciniana de limite ad limitē İntegrata İsta limite de limite İntegrata İsta limite integratam. iuxta limitē mūnio· de mūnio· | munionis. et accepi de te pretio İðſt| et accepi de te· pretio et accepi a te p͂ciū quatuor· bobeſ· et canape et ·IIIior· uoueſ· et ganape· | ·IIIior· boues. et ganape. et plumazo· et ſabana et| bracaſ et plumatio· et ſabana /et plumaçium. et ſabanam et et adtorra linea· brakaſ\· et atorra linea· | braccas. et atorralinez. et nicil İn te non remanſit| et nichil İn te remanſit de et nichil remanſit de ip͂o p͂cio de İpſo pretio aput te· İpſo pretio apudte· | apð te.

Th e early ascendancy of Romance is visible in the presence of spellings different from the traditional Latin. Several words present variants that convey the sound a Romance speaker would expect, a spelling whose Latin form the 1236 text attempts to “restore,” more or less felicitously:

14 Abbreviations that will be used throughout the text and appendices are as follows: ACT: Archivo Catedral de Toledo; AHDP: Archivo Histórico Diocesano de Palencia; AHN: Archivo Histórico Nacional, Madrid; AMHB: Archivo del Monasterio de las Huel- gas de Burgos; and OO.MM.: Órdenes militares. Words are underlined to draw the reader’s attention to signiﬁ cant diﬀ erences between versions. [116] 272 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

emtori / emtori/ emptori bracaſ / brakaſ / braccas adqs / atqs / atque adtorra / atorra / [word misunderstood ] canape / ganape / ganape nicil / nichil / nichil plumazo / plumatio / plumaçium aput te / apud te / apð te

More interesting are the emendations introduced by the 1236 copyist, affi xing the infl ected endings expected in Latin to what are in fact Romance words. Th ose words are predictably located in the blanks of the Latin template used by the original scribe and his older copyists. Th e late emendations demonstrate how irrelevant Latin infl exion had become by the tenth century (gutier / gutier / Guterrius; ad tuos / ad tuos / tuis; gasalianes / gasalianes / gasalianibus, etc.). Th e reform of 1080 reversed the process. Romance words would be imported out of necessity, but they would be forced into the procrustean bed of Latin morphology. Th e Cluniac reform erased the old culture so well that the professional copyist of 1236 was unable to understand some of what his predecessors had written. For instance, the last item mentioned in the previous contract as part of the payment had been a linen shirt (“atorra linea”). Th e scribe confl ated the two words as one and compounded that error by misreading the fi nal a as z, which was how it read to him, as it does to us, but not to the 1087 scribe. Atorra linea then became atorralinez, which carries no meaning. By 1236, and despite his good intentions, the copyist of Valpuesta was serving a lost cause. He was Latinizing the old cartulary at a time when the new code conveying Romance speech in written form had taken hold in Castile. Finally, aside from providing a vivid example of how the 1080 reform stifl ed an incipient Romance code, Valpuesta’s cartularies remind us of the fact that written texts do not necessarily refl ect the evolution of the spoken language, but rather the succession of diff erent script codes, and that such codes do not arise spontaneously but are the products of diff erent institutions.

Awareness of Castilian as a Romance Language Th e mid-twelfth-century Prefatio de Almaria, the learned Latin poem celebrating the conquest of Almería, emphasizes the uniqueness of the Castilian warriors’ language by comparing it to the sound of a tambourine: “Illorum lingua resonat quasi tympanotriba” (Prefatio v. 149). Menéndez Pidal saw in this line “the ﬁ rst praise of the Spanish language,” while Wright viewed it as a reference “to the loudness and arrogance of the way F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 273 [117]

Castilians talk.”15 Whether odious or melodious, there is little doubt that the lingua described by the poem is the language of Castile. Language change does not guarantee a change in writing, especially if the comfortable livelihood of those who write is based on their ability to produce refi ned, rarifi ed and much sought-after old-code texts for the royal court. Th e Castilian chancery, staff ed mostly with foreigners until late in the century, would resist a Romance code for a long time. As for the urban notaries, although they would insert openly Romance segments inside their Latin templates, they had no incentive to modify their practices radically either. Th ose who had mastered the system had nothing to gain by discarding it.

Th e 1180 Reform North of the Pyrenees, however, others had already eﬀ ected the change. Since the early decades of the twelfth century, diplomas had been written in the vernacular language of Languedoc, the langue d’oc, or Occitan, but not everyone had adopted this new alternative to Latin in this vast linguistic domain, which included not only Aquitaine, Toulouse and Provence, but also Catalonia (Colón 114).16 Most, if not all, of the Romance diplomas predating 1200 that have survived from Languedoc are included in Clovis Brunel’s collection.17 When we apply the same institutional rearrangement that we have applied to Pidal’s collection to his 540 documents, the results are strikingly similar, showing an unequivocal correlation between the new monastic orders (Cistercians, Premonstratensians, Templars and Hospitallers) and the ﬂ owering of written Romance. As the use of Occitan becomes pervasive in the

15 Menéndez Pidal copies “tympano tuba,” instead of “tympanotriba,” following Sánchez Belda’s edition (Chronica Adefonsi Imperatoris 173, v. 136) and says that it is “[el] primer elogio de la lengua castellana” (Menéndez Pidal, Historia de la lengua española 1: 471-472). Wright’s comment appeared fi rst in Latin and Romance (229) and is substantially repeated in Early Ibero-Romance (286). 16 Th e later linguistic division from Provence may have been precipitated by the Catalan defeat at Muret in 1213, as suggested by Wright (El Tratado 27, 119). Th e editors of the documents from the Cistercian abbey of Nonenque (half way between Albi and Mont- pellier) describe their earliest Romance documents as “Old Catalan” texts (Couderc and Rigal). 17 No additions are suggested by Frank, Hartmann and Kürschner (Vol. 4, section 7.2). [118] 274 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 third decade of the twelfth century, another trend becomes apparent: the predominance of Romance charters related to the military orders and to Cistercian convents, communities of warriors and nuns where Latin liter- acy would have been a rarity (Brunel 2: XI-XII; Bulst-Th iele)—a trend that reappears later in Castile. With regard to Languedoc, the evidence shows that fully developed Occitan texts appear four or even fi ve decades earlier than in Castile, with the greatest concentration in the proximity of Toulouse. Th e fi rst to patro- nize and adopt the new code were not the princes, the cathedrals or the old Benedictine monasteries. Th e fi rst were the new monastic orders, including the Hospitallers and the Templars, the latter being especially close to the Cistercians, as would be the Order of Calatrava. From Languedoc, the Cistercians moved on to the kingdom of León- Castile. With the exception of La Espina (dioc. Burgos, founded 1147), which claimed the direct intervention of St. Bernard and was placed under the tutelage of Clairvaux, the other monasteries founded in Castile at the time were affi liated with southern houses: Sacramenia (1141) with Escala- dieu (Scala Dei); Valbuena (1143), Huerta (1144) and Rioseco (1148) with Berdoues (Álvarez Palenzuela 241; Pérez-Embid 271)—both mother- houses situated to the west and southwest of Toulouse. Th e white monks had moved to Castile with the support of Emperor Alfonso VII.18 After his death in 1157, and the subsequent separation of León and Castile, the new rival kings, children and grandchildren of the emperor, continued to favor the new orders (the Premonstratensians become active in the 1160s) and often encouraged them to settle near their own frontiers as a buff er against their neighbours (Defourneaux 51-57; Álvarez Palenzuela 65; Pérez-Embid 272-275). Th e nobility also supported them, especially an important group with roots in Catalonia and Langue- doc, from which came some of the new monks, and from where the Castilian queen, Eleanor, daughter of Eleanor of Aquitaine, had also arrived (González, Alfonso VIII 1: 185-193). Amongst the nobles were Count Aimeric of Narbonne, benefactor of the Cistercian monastery of Huerta, Ponce de Cabrera, whose wife Stefania founded Valbuena while pro- claiming that she was a foreigner (“cum essem mulier aliene terre”).19 In

18 He was encouraged by his sister Sancha, who also played an important role. For a recent survey of related biblography, see Alonso Álvarez 682-684. 19 See document dated 1143, February 15, Valbuena: AHN, Clero, c. 3440/3, fols. 1r- 2r. Another Catalan who sees himself as “alienus” in Castile is Armengol VII, who writes F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 275 [119] addition there would be the counts of Urgel, Armengol VI and VII, protectors of the Premonstratensians (Corredera Gutiérrez; see also Lomax; Barton, “Th e Count,” “Two Catalan Magnates” and Th e Aristocracy), one of whose descendants, Armingot, together with his wife Catalana, also had close relations with the monks of Aguilar (González, Alfonso VIII 1: 343; Rodríguez de Diego num. 101). Th e new orders brought to Castile the idea that it was possible and desirable to have a fully developed Romance code for diplomas, legal contracts and other compacts that required the security of the written word. Curiously, the idea, which had emerged and had been successfully adopted in Languedoc during the fi rst half of the twelfth century, did not spread to the north, to the domaine de la langue d’oïl, but south, to the Hispanic frontier, even though south of the Pyrenees the new code was not implemented immediately. Bureaucratic inertia must have been an obstacle, as it always is. Th e question does arise, however, that if Castilian notaries could bend their Latinate texts and make them sound like the vernacular to their illiterate clients, why did the monks not follow the same procedure? Perhaps because the new men from beyond the Pyrenees were not able to perform the same trick as easily. Being unfamiliar with the local language, they would not have been able to improvise a vernacular reading or paraphrase of a Latinate text when required to do so in public. To read the texts aloud in the manner expected locally they needed a built-in prompter, embedded in the document itself. Following the same principle, the Aquitanian canons of Toledo marked stressed vowels with written accents when inserting Romance words in some of their Latin documents.20 Th e decision to write only Romance may have resulted from frustration, mixed with pragmatism, and the knowledge of how things were done in Provence. Be that as it may, fully formed Romance texts do begin to appear with increasing frequency in Castile during the 1180s. In contrast, the urban notaries of northern France will not adopt a vernacular code until the very end of the century, while the French royal chancery will maintain Latin as the offi cial language until the late 1250s.21 A similar reluctance towards his last will in June 1177 when, as he says, he intends to go to “Spain” (“volens adire His- paniam” [Monfar y Sors 1: 418]). See Álvarez Palenzuela, 81; Alonso Álvarez 674-676. 20 See the document dated 1163 in Hernández, “Sobre los orígenes” 145. 21 As in the case of some early-thirteenth-century Castilian pesquisas some of the royal French vidimus reproduce Romance acts within a Latin frame, although the fi rst known example is from 1237. Th e next one is from 1252 (Carolus-Barré 150). [120] 276 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

Romance writing is noticeable in the chanceries and notaries of Portugal and Catalonia (Costa; Martins; Russell-Gebbet; Frank, Hartmann and Kürschner, Vol. 5, section 7.5; Kosto; Moran i Ocerinjauregui and Rabella i Ribas). What happened in Castile becomes apparent if we take another look at Pidal’s documents, rearranged according to their institutional origins. Th e earliest with a consistent Romance code belong to the sister orders of Cîteaux and Prémontré. Th e latter are best represented by the monastery of Aguilar, whose archive housed some of the earliest experiments with a new code, including the three Jewish contracts of 1187. Th e Cistercians have an even more impressive record in the 1180s and 1190s, specifi cally in the records of Calatrava and the convent archives of San Clemente of Toledo and Las Huelgas of Burgos, as already noted. Th e facts speak for themselves: the idea and the decisive impulse to adopt a consistent Romance code came from the colonies of foreign monks, who remained in contact with their mother houses and their script culture—the Cistercian abbots were expected to participate every year in the Cîteaux General Chapter, and their monasteries were subjected to regular inspections by the same mother houses.22 Th eir pragmatism and open- mindedness had made the development of Romance prose possible in Languedoc, a land where a strong poetic tradition in the vernacular must have been an example to the monastic scriptoria. Th e same pragmatism surely reinforced writing Romance in contexts where Latin would not have been understood: in the convents of Cistercian nuns or in the castles of the Calatravan warrior-monks. Yet it did take some time for the new orders to add a second, worldly Romance code to their old, sacred Latin one. In fact, none of the fi ve initial Cistercian abbeys founded in the 1140s seem to have been interested in linguistic innovation, although we cannot be certain, given the scarcity of surviving records, a situation which is especially grievous in the case of the great monastery of Huerta. Th e fi rst initiatives that signal the fl owering of Romance will not appear until the second generation of monastic expansion in the 1160s and 1170s.

22 See Álvarez Palenzuela 22-29. Th e abbot of Berdoues, or “Berdones” in Spanish, was clearly still visiting his Castilian dependancies in the early fourteenth century, as suggested by Juan Ruiz in his “Triumph of Don Amor” (Libro de Buen Amor st. 1235a-d, ms T), a passage from the Libro de Buen Amor that has mystiﬁ ed all “juanruicistas” until now. F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 277 [121]

Th e abbey of Aguilar had a long monastic prehistory, going back to 950; but in 1169 it was aﬃ liated to Prémontré and became the order’s most important house in the Peninsula after La Vid (near Peñaranda, Burgos). Aguilar’s archive, however, has survived far better than La Vid’s and provides an interesting record of its script culture (Backmund, Monasticon 3: 237-242, 306-311 and “La Orden” 19, 25). In this context, it is worth mentioning the order’s general interest in the written word and its verbal representation. Prémontré’s earliest statutes, dating from the mid twelfth century, prescribe a daily reading period in the cloister, when monks are expected to prepare for liturgy or study theology. Barring reasonable exceptions, the rule encourages monks to keep to their own books and not to distract their colleagues with questions. Questions, however, about the pronunciation of unfamiliar words or how to deal with long and short “accents” were allowed and even encouraged.23 Such an approach to the oral delivery of the sacred page also prepared them for the more mundane business of reading and writing contracts that were read aloud outside the cloister and understood in the street and the marketplace. As already noted, the Premonstrartensians moved to a pre-existing secular abbey when they arrived in Aguilar in 1169 (Backmund, Monasticon 237; Rodríguez de Diego 30). With the buildings and grounds, they also inherited an archive going back more than two hundred years. It included texts that predated the 1080 reform, plus others that followed in time, but not in spirit. One, dated 1148, attempts to reproduce the actual words spoken by a man who agrees to exchange certain properties in Aguilar and environs with four other parties. It is written by the local abbot, who claims to have done it “at the Emperor’s court,” at the time when it met in Burgos for a tournament:24

23 “Qui vero in claustro sederint, religiose se habeant, singuli in singulis libris legentes, exceptis illis qui in antiphonariis, gradualibus, ymnariis cantaverint, et illis qui lecciones previderint, quas terminet et auscultet cui iniunctum fuerit. Neque inquietent se invicem in questionibus faciendis, nisi de productis et correptis accentibus, et de diccione quam legere ignoraverint . . . cum necesse fuerit, que brevissime ﬁ ant” (Lefèvre and Grauwen 12). 24 From Archivo Histórico Nacional, Clero, ms 994, parchment strip inserted between fols. 83 and 84. Pidal classiﬁ ed it as a Burgos document (Documentos num. 149; see also Rodríguez de Diego num. 14). It is not an original, as Pidal and Rodríguez imply, but a copy from the early thirteenth century. [122] 278 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

[Palaeographic transcription:] [Expanded version:] Ego uob̃ feranpetrez. con tibi martin- Ego uobis Feran Petrez con tibi Martin Gonzalues et con Garcia Ordonez femus ﻭgonzalueſ. τ cõgarcia ordonez. fem

ﬁ rmam̃tũ de nrã hereditate.| Que quando ﬁ rmamentum de nostra hereditate: Que ,laquarta de trigheroſ. que noſ deſ quando te derimus la quarta de Trigheros ﻭtederim nrã parte enaqilar. que nos des nostra parte en Aquilar. laquarta Et con uobis Ferant Torto damus la quarta ﻭcõ uob̃ ferant torto dam & henchintana defornelloſ.| por la urã parte hen Chintana defornellos por la uuestra daqilar τ deſuaſ uillaſ. ad uoſ τ adurõ ſ parte d’Aquilar e de suas uillas, ad uos et ad hermanoſ. quado deredeſ laquarta de uuestros hermanos, quado deredes laquarta chintana. que uoſ den urã parte enaqilar. de Chintana, que uos den uuestra parte en τ enſuaſ uillaſ.| . . . Aquilar et en suas uillas . . . Jſta carta fue ſcripta alacorte del enperatore Ista carta fue scripta a la corte del Enperatore en burgoſ. quando fue el redongarcia. por en Burgos, quando fue el re don Garcia por

ouo senal al repto de Gonzal Antolinez que ouo ſenal. alrepto. degonzal| antolinez. q٤ cõmartin martinez . . . con Martin Martinez. .Ista scriptura face abas Vicent Guillelmus .ﻭJſta ſcriptura fac ͂ abas uicet̃ guillem

Unfortunately, this is not the original text but a credible replica penned about ﬁ fty years later, reproducing elements obsolete by the time of the copy, such as the grapheme ch for [k] in Chintana. It conveys Abbot Vi- cente’s eﬀ ort, going against the prevalent norm, to replicate Fernán Pérez’s voice. His work may be better appreciated if compared with another text fashioned with a similar purpose, at about the same time, originating some seventy kilometers south. It is written by the notary of the great and highly conservative Cluniac abbey of Carrión (“Pelagius Rabadanus, notarius pri- oris Sancti Zoyli”). It records an important gift of land with special rights (divisa) to the bishop of Palencia by a man who assures us, in the notary’s words, that he is neither mad nor drunk, but of sound mind and full of good counsel.25 Th e gift’s topographic description shows the growth of Romance within a Latin paradigm:

Et habet ista diuisa partem in quatuor solares que sunt populatos ibi . . . Et est uno solare in barrio de Sancto Petro, prenominato ipso in quo sedet Micahel Muza; et alio solar est in ipsa Corpenna, et morat in eo ﬁ lio de Garuisso; et alios duos solares sunt retro las casas de ﬁ lios de don Lop et morat in uno solar Arnaldo, qui torcet las feces

25 “ego, Godestiu Heneguez, talis mihi uenit uoluntas, nec perturbato sensu neque per ebrietas uini, sed caro animo et bono consilio facio cartulam donationis a Deo et ecclesie beati Antonini Martiris et uobis, episcopo Raimundo palentine sedis, de una diuisa que dono uobis, que fuit de Eluira Bernardo” (1153, Carrión; Abajo Martín num. 46). F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 279 [123]

del uino, et in altero morat mulier que fuit de Petro Mal barbado. (1153, Carrión; Abajo Martín num. 46)

Returning to Aguilar and to experimental Romance, we may consider now a document from the monastery’s archive issued in 1175, already under the Prémontré regime.26 Th e brief initial invocation and the dating clause still cling to Latin forms, but, contrary to a well-entrenched tradition, they are almost absent when naming the ruling monarch and his court (“Regna aldefonſus rex en toleto”). Th e scarcity of abbreviations also enhances its Romance tone. Finally, the scribe off ers the anomalous spellings of Che- mena (line 2) and frare (line 12), which invite us to take seriously the “French” roots implicit in his name: Petrus Franco.27 Although the document deals with a property acquired only later by the monastery, it is most likely that the scribe was attached to it or to its script culture. Th e next witness was written three years later by Aguilar’s long-lived Abbot Andreas (1173-1206). It is a text equally framed by introductory and fi nal Latin clauses, but its body betrays a Romance spirit, an impres- sion emphasized again by the small number of abbreviations (Appendix D).28 ereditat ﻭTh us, after the formulaic Latin fi rst line, it reads: “noſ cõparam en·ual maior de don garcia de fi gar e de ſuoſ ermanoſ · de dona colūba e de dona iulana e de dona ſancha | τ de dona domenga,” with only two verbal ending (Latin -mus, but acceptable as ﻭabbreviations: the usual -m -mos in a Romance context) and the macron tilde, which usually indicates a missing m or n, in colūba. Th e rest of the vernacular text, from which only the dating clause and the fi nal sanction are excluded, exhibits a similar avoidance of Latin morphology but keeps the old verb forms, with ;(comparamus] (line 2), vs. conparauimuſ (line 6] ﻭsome exceptions: cõparam habet (line 3) vs. abet (lines 4 twice, 5, 6); and ſūt [sunt] (line 8). In some of its usages, the abbot’s letter of 1178 is less “advanced” than that of Petrus Franco from 1175. Th e subsequent history of Aguilar does not show a linear progression in the acquisition of a Romance code. Even though more abundant than others, its documentary record is far from complete, as becomes evident when comparing the surviving originals with the copies included later in

26 Partially published by Pidal in Documentos 33 num. 33. 27 Chemena represents the sound [š], in contrast with its more frequent use as [k] at this time, as in the case of the previous “Chintana.” 28 On Andreas, see Backmund, Monasticon 239; text is absent from Pidal’s collection. [124] 280 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 its cartulary—the Jewish letters we have already seen being a case in point. Th e cartulary provides copies of many lost instruments and conveys a general picture of linguistic trends, although some of the most telling details may be lost in the copy, as can be seen in another purchase of Abbot Andreas from 1186. Here the intention of deviating from Latin conventions and paying close attention to the actual sounds of Romance is visible in the care taken to transcribe diphthongs and in the more strict separation of Latin formulae and vernacular discourse, eff orts that are lost in the cartulary copy: peidro vs Petº; huembre vs om̃e; ſeſaenta vs ſexaginta (Appendix E). Th e oldest Aguilar Jewish document written in Romance is dated 1187, a date and a code which seem to implicate the soferim scribes in the movement to provide an alternative to Latinate writing. Th e model of diff usion implicit here, where the idea is seen to disseminate and then return to reinforce the original impulse, can also be observed in developments that take place much further south, in the region of Toledo. Th e initiators were the Cistercians who had arrived from the north in the mid twelfth century and defended the fortress of Calatrava against an Almohad counter-off ensive. In the process, they created the military order named after the same fortress.29 Th eir original home was the then Castilian monastery of Fitero, on the border with Navarre, where they were already courting Romance by the early 1160s.30 Shortly thereafter, the Calatravans began to display their distant mother-house’s linguistic proclivities.31 Along with their white tunics and red crosses, the friars brought with them the idea of a Romance script to the city and territory of Toledo. Th e idea found a fertile ground among the Latinized Mozarabic clergy from the city’s parishes. In contrast with the mostly French cathedral

29 King Sancho III of Castile gave the fortress of Calatrava to Abbot Raymond of Fitero in 1158: O’Callaghan, “Th e Affi liation” 179-184. Th e problematic foundation of Fitero and its relationship with the Castilian crown are reexamined by Alonso Álvarez 654- 655. Caltrava la Vieja (Old Calatrava) is located near Carrión de Calatrava, province of Ciudad Real. 30 Documents from this period only survive in a cartulary, published by Arigita in the fi rst and last volume of the Colección de documentos inéditos para la historia de Navarra and by Monterde Albiac. Even if they are copies, these texts clearly suggest an underlying tendency to court Romance. See, for example, one dated 1161 (Arigita y Lasa 64-65 num. 64; Monterde Albiac 459-460 num. 130). 31 Th e castle of Calatrava, along with Toledo and its hinterland, became the main theatre of operations of the order (Rodríguez-Picavea, La formación). F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 281 [125] canons, these priests’ income was woefully insuffi cient.32 To survive, some of them worked as scribes and produced Latinate documents for non- Mozarabs or for jurisdictions outside of Toledo, where Arabic was not the legal language.33 As they began to work for the Calatravans, they began to adopt a linguistic strategy. Such is the case of Domingo Martínez, scriptor of the parish of San Nicolás.34 Probably at the request of Calatrava and some time near 1170, he drafted a bill of sale similar to those from Aguilar during the same decade, framed by Latin formulae but written in a remarkably consistent Romance (Appendix F).35 Yet, as in the north, the progress towards a new code was not steady. Other parish notaries continued to write Latin documents for the Calatravans, such as the contract of April 1176 drafted for the Order’s General Master by Martin, priest of San Román.36 Nevertheless, the Order’s overriding impulse towards Romance is evident in another document of 1181 penned not by a professional scribe but by one of Calatrava’s own fi ghting monks, a lesser master who had just returned from al-Andalus carrying prisoners (“Pelagius caſtellanenſis magiſter calatrauenſis ſcripſit, et tradit captivos de illo de terra mauro- rum”). Although he is not as consistent as the scribe of San Nicolás, Master Pelagius deliberately uses vernacular lexicon and morphology to convey the conditions under which lands owned by the Order in Ocaña are granted to a certain knight (Appendix G). He still keeps the Latin ampersand to signify the copulative conjunction, but writes Romance hi twice

32 As noted in the papal letter “Conquerentibus clericis,” Viterbo, 11 July 1181 (Rivera Recio 2: 138 num. 60). 33 In general terms, Arabic was the legal language of the old Toledans, the Mozarabs, while Castilians and “Franks” used the Latin of the Church and the royal chancery. In fact, however, the situation was far more complex, with “Franks” and Jews using Arabic as their language of record, and a Mozarabic clergy who learned Latin from an Arabic base, rather than Romance (González Palencia 4: 129, 140, 142 ﬀ .; Molénat, “Les Francs de Tolède” and “L’arabe à Tolède”; Hernández, “Language” and “Historia”). 34 For a map of medieval Toledo, see González Palencia, Volumen Preliminar. 35 Th e sale is related to Aceca, a town in the Sagra region of Toledo, where Calatrava must have had a foothold before receiving half of the same town from Count Nuño at the request of the king. See Rodríguez-Picavea (La formación 101). 36 “Martinus ecclesie sancti Romani presbiter scripsit.” Th e contract’s two parties are Master Martín Pérez de Siones and Guter Petriz de Rinoso, a knight probably from Reinoso de Campos, and as such close to linguistically conservative Palencia centers, a fact that may be related to the use of Latin in the charter (AHN, OO.MM., Calatrava, c. 455/16. Reg. Rodríguez-Picavea, “Documentos” 48 num. 46). [126] 282 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

(lines 6 and 8) and refers to cattle as canados and ganado in the same line (line 7).37 He also calls himself castellanensis, a rather unusual adjective then, even if it was applied to the Castilian king by the papal chancery; and yet he writes words which are not Castilian, such as allora (line 8) and la meson (lines 5, 7, 9), a word used in Toledo for a ‘shop’ or an ‘inn,’ but to be understood here as the ‘house’ of Calatrava.38 Eventually, some of the earliest and most striking examples of the new code will appear in the Calatrava archive during the 1190s. As in Aguilar, it looks as if the process spearheaded by the monks beneﬁ ted from a second wave of contributions issuing from a complex linguistic culture, from men who were accustomed to moving from one code to another, be they Mozar- abs of Toledo or Jews of Aguilar. It is only in the 1180s, after the faltering steps of the previous decade, that there are truly consistent Romance texts that purposefully distinguish themselves from Latin and display a code that, with some adjustments, is still used today by those who write Spanish. Th e earliest text preserved, as far as I know, is not found in the Toledan section of the Calatrava archive, but among the records of another branch of the Cistercian family, the Burgos convent of Las Huelgas.39 It appears in the 1188 agreement of Abbess Sol with a group of settlers from the Duratón river area (Appendix H). Hovering near doña Sol, there appear the Cistercian abbots of Rioseco (“el abbad don Martin de Sant Ciprian de Monte d’Oca”) and Balbuena (“el abbad don Nunio de Ualbona”), described as witnesses. Th e agreement, written in a limpid diplomatic minuscule hand by a scribe who signs as “Garsias,” is a chirograph—a text copied twice on the same sheet of parchment and cut along a line with the alphabet on it, so that each party would keep a copy with half of each of the alphabet’s letters. In this

37 Th e copulative i (modern y) was normal in the Toledo region, as attested by the Auto de los Reyes Magos. It also appears in northern Castile, rendered as hi in several early Romance documents copied in the mid-thirteenth-century cartulary of the Premonstraten- sian house of Villamayor de Treviño (Burgos): AHN, codex 998. 38 Pope Celestine III refers to “Regibus Ispaniarum, et specialiter Castellanensi et Arago- nensi,” in a letter dated 29 March 1196, Lateran (Fita, “Bulas históricas” 419). Th e adoption of castellanensis is probably parallel to the use of Hispanus or español, adopted by foreigners who had come to Castile, often from Languedoc. See Lapesa 136. 39 For the moment, I leave aside the exceptional case of a Romance feudal convenientia between the bishop of Osma and a knight, from c. 1156. Although it displays quite a consistent Romance code, it may represent a dead-end initiative, in contrast with the long- term eff orts of the new monastic orders described here. It has been studied and published by Canellas, but his edition is defective. F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 283 [127] case, both parts have been preserved, which may mean that the agreement failed or was cancelled, and the two halves were reunited. Th e result is that we have twin witnesses of a substantial and complex text, that we can compare to verify possible doubtful readings. Excluding a brief invocation and the dating clause, the move away from Latin is unmistakable, although the scribe has not been able to avoid some of the most frequently used symbols. For example, we see ťra (t[i]erra) and monesťio (monesterio), along with two cases of sanct-us/a, rendered as sc-us͂ /a, with two instances of sant. Th e copulative conjunction also retains the two forms of ampersand: lower case τ (nineteen times) and capital & (two times); but there are also seven cases of et, which is rare in Latin texts and seems to refl ect an avoidance of abbreviations. Finally, the pervasive Latin use of q ̃ is fi rmly rejected and replaced by que (seventeen times) or qe (six times). Th e similar use of a very clear superscript vowel appears in other cases, rendering Romance [kwán.do] as qando, and [kó.mo] as quomº, which Pidal expands as quomo and Lizoain Garrido as quomodo— acceptable in a Latin context, but not in Romance.40 Th e most striking evidence of Garsias’ attempt to move away from Latin orthography and literally “invent” a Romance code is visible in the rendering of the palatal [cˆ] sound. Twice in the text (or four times if we look at the chirograph’s two versions) we see the word fectos (lines 4 and 6), where left, like a shepherd’s ﹸthe t is prolonged upwards and rounded towards the crook. Th e same symbol, which is also used for the name of a witness, bñdicto, has no precedent in the Latin system of abbreviations. Pidal, who -copy provided by Dom Luciano Serrano, and Lizoain Garrido fol ﹸused a lowing him, simply transcribe fectos and Benedicto, ignoring the new symbol, which suggests reading fechos/[fé.côs] and Bendicho/[βen.dí.cô]. However the name of Sancia, shared by two nuns, is left as such; it may have been confusing to others and arrogant on their part to be called Sancta, even if only in writing. documents from Las Huelgas continue to show the nuns’ interest ﹸOther in patronizing scribes capable of delivering texts in the new code.41 Th e

40 Th e Latin abbreviation for testis (t )̃ is also used, but only after Garsias has introduced the witnesses as “testigos” (line 17). So the expanded transcription of t ,̃ which is under- standably retained, as it is repeated after the name of each one of the seventeen witnesses, except for the fi rst, should be testigo, and not testis, which is Lizoain Garrido’s solution, whereas Pidal prudently retains ts. 41 Document dated 1197, October: legacy of the formerly married abbess of Las Huel- gas to her children. Archivo Catedral de Burgos, Vol. 40, fol. 42 (Serrano 3: num. 220; Menéndez Pidal, Documentos num. 153; Lizoain Garrido num. 45). [128] 284 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 monks did the same or learned the code themselves and used it when dealing with their benefactors, as in the case of María de Almenara, daughter of Count Armengol VII of Urgel. Her gift of 500 maravedís to the monastery of Aguilar was conveyed in a Latin document issued in May of 1189 by her own scribe: “Michael notator donne Marie scripsit.”42 Th en in 1196, when she began to deal with Las Huelgas, where she would eventually be buried (Gómez Moreno 29, 46-47), her documents use the new code.43 Her son, Armingot, appears to follow a similar pattern after her death. When, in 1197, he sells a plot of land inherited from her to Abbot Andreas of Aguilar, the scribe who drafts the Latin deed seems to be part of the knight’s entourage, one that includes his administrator and his minstrel (“Gomez trobador”).44 His agreement, dated 1200, with the Cistercians of Bujedo de Juarros is drafted in Romance code by one of the abbey’s foreign monks (“Jacobus monachus scripsit”). 45 Again it must be emphasized that the new scriptural trend was neither unifi ed nor steady; it is fraught with setbacks and exhibits a plethora of variations, often within the very same institutions that promoted the code. Such a history suggests a complex process in need of further study. Never- theless, there is already enough evidence to suggest the origins and impetus of a trend of manuscript culture that began slowly but steadily, intensify- ing its pace by the turn of the century.46 By the fi rst decade of the new

42 AHN, Clero, c. 1649/4 (González de Fauve num. 54; Rodríguez de Diego num. 67). See also documents of November 1196, October 1197 and August 1210 (written by “Domnus Dionisius,” clearly a French monk), among others (e.g., Lizoain Garrido nums. 45, 102, 92, 103). 43 She reached an agreement on lands related to Las Huelgas on 11 November 1196. It was recorded in Romance, although we only know it through a confi rmation of Fernando III, 13 September 1223 (González, Fernando III, Vol. 2 num. 187; Lizoain Garrido num. 42). 44 Th e scribe (“Petrus scripsit”) may have been “Petro petrez maiordomo de don Armengoth” listed among the witnesses (González de Fauve num. 78; Rodríguez de Diego num. 101). 45 After an aborted attempt in 1159, the abbey of Santa María de Bujedo, 25 kilometers east of Burgos, was defi nitively founded in 1172 with the support of the Haro familly (Álvarez Palenzuela 207). See AHN, Clero, c. 169/15; original, chirograph (Menéndez Pidal, Documentos num. 155). Armingot was a nephew of Count Armengol VII of Urgel (González, Alfonso VIII 1: 342-343). 46 Th is does not exclude the growth of independent movements, as it can be seen among certain parish clerics of Toledo. Th e famous fuero of Villa Algariva of 1191 probably belongs to this group (Menéndez Pidal, Documentos num. 261; Hernández, “Orígenes” 149-150). Equally striking is the less well known judicial sentence of 1199 issued by Diego Pérez, alcalde, or ‘judge,’ of the Castilians of Toledo (as opposed to the alcalde of the Mozarabs, F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 285 [129] century it is found in a series of documents related to the Cistercian convents of San Clemente in Toledo and Las Huelgas of Burgos, and even passes on, albeit briefl y, to the royal chancery—the famous Treaty of Cabreros in 1206 and the Posturas of Toledo of 1207.47 Th e composition of the oldest Castilian literary texts around this time is surely not a coincidence: that of the Auto de los Reyes Magos, Disputa del Alma y el Cuerpo and Cantar de Mio Cid. Once the foreign orders of Cîteaux and Prémontré disseminated the idea of applying a fully consistent Romance code in Castile, as they had done in Languedoc, a few local scribes and notaries adopted the idea and put it into practice. Th e case of the parish clergy of Toledo, encouraged by the patronage of Calatrava, has already been mentioned. Another instance seems to have been that of the rabbinical scribes of Aguilar.

Back to the Jewish Contracts from Aguilar Th e three Jewish contracts with purchases of shares of mills reported in the document dated 1187 (and clarifi ed retroactively by those of 1219 and 1220) seem to indicate that they were among those who joined the reform and, in so doing, solidifi ed it. Th e Romance code found in the three contracts is so similar to the orthographic conventions that will become standard some 30 years later, that its copy (c. 1235) in the monastic cartulary presents few signifi cant variants. As we have already seen, the 1187 texts are not the original contracts, but summaries. It is likely that their prototypes contained the kind of Catalan-Provençal traits visible in those from 1219 and 1220, which would suggest that like the monks of Aguilar, the Jews had originally come from Languedoc and not from Andalusia, as was the case for many of their of co-religionists in other parts of Spain (Ashtor 2: 30-35; Baer 1: 78). While in Languedoc, the Jews did not have the opportunity to practice the

Esteban Illán, who wrote in Arabic). Although preserved in the cathedral archive, a bastion of Latinity at this time, it is signed by “Bricius, cognomine Lupus” (V.10.A.1.38; reg. Hernández, Cartularios num. 267), whose identity is revealed in another text of 1 May 1203, where it transpires that, aside from working as a scribe, he was a deacon of the church of San Vincente of Toledo (Fita, “Marjadraque” 365-367; Hernández, Cartularios num. 279). 47 See Wright (El Tratado) with information about earlier editions. I have attempted to explain the political reasons the chancery may have had to use the Romance code in 1206 in “Orígenes” 154-157. [130] 286 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

Romance code. Th e collections that have survived from the region suggest that Latin was the only language they were able to use for their transactions with Christians (Saige; Dossat). Th ey seem to have found a more tolerant climate in Castile: where the priest Martin copies and endorses Romance Jewish contracts and the abbot of Aguilar accepts covenants guaranteed by rabbinical formulas expressed in Romance, and where the fi rst known royal command issued by the chancery of King Fernando III that is solely in Castilian Romance (February 1223) authorized and protected a settlement of twenty Jewish families in the town of Villadiego, near Burgos.48 It is therefore not surprising that the soferim scribes adopted and embraced the idea of a Romance code from the very beginning and helped to make it a reality. It seems somehow appropriate that the idea of devising a written code for what would eventually be known as the Spanish language should have come from the very lands where the word español fi rst appeared to designate the inhabitants of the lands south of the Pyrenees (Lapesa 134). Several impulses from learned circles (monastic scriptoria, urban notaries, royal chancery, Mozarabic priests, Jewish soferim) contributed to produce the code that eventually crystallized during the fi rst half of the thirteenth century, but I would argue that the initial spark came from Languedoc and was transmitted by an international monastic network. Th is model of transmission was already foreseen by the great American medievalist Charles Homer Haskins in his article on “Th e Spread of Ideas in the Middle Ages,” published in the fi rst issue of Speculum in 1926, where he observed how monastic connections were established beyond national boundaries and how their well maintained networks sustained communities of readers and scriptural cultures which were not circum- scribed to single kingdoms or geographic regions:

One of the best illustrations of the fallacy of a merely regional view—says Haskins—is Traube’s study of the so-called “national hands,” in which he demonstrated that there was no such thing as a Merovingian or a Lombard book-hand, but only the handwrit- ing of the several monastic scriptoria, with occasional monks passing from one to another, so that the manuscripts of Corbie in Gaul show closer resemblances to manuscripts of northern Italy than to those of Frankish neighbours. (22)

48 “E ninguno que mal los ﬁ çiese a ellos, nin en lo so, nin los peindrase, cien maravedis me pechará en coto, τ a ellos todo el danno que les ﬁ ciese dárgelo ie doblado” (25 February 1223, Valladolid [González, Fernando III num. 174]). F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 287 [131]

As I hope to have shown here, the same model can be applied to the transmission of a Romance code in Castile. Once the idea took hold, it was adapted to the linguistic conditions of the local population, which included substantial Jewish communities in diff erent parts of the realm. Th e aljama of Aguilar seems to have been amongst the fi rst to embrace the idea and put it into practice. As such it is the fi rst-known Jewish contribution to the development of written Spanish, a language and a literature they would continue to cultivate and enrich during the following centuries.

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Appendices Th e following paleographic transcriptions are not intended as editions of the respective documents. Instead they are meant as examples on which F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 293 [137] the previous study was based. As such, apparatus and notes referring to comparative transcriptions or deviations from other printed forms of the documents are not included. Reference to printed transcriptions of each document are noted at the beginning of each transcription for those interested in further comparison. Line separation is indicated in all cases by a vertical bar and expansion of abbrevations are noted in bold type. Words are underlined to draw the reader’s attention to signiﬁ cant diﬀ erences between versions. Symbol / \ indicates superscript. [138] 294 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

Appendix A Contracts dated 1187 and their copy of c. 1235, [Aguilar de Campoo]. Th ree purchases of shares in mills by Jews in Aguilar.

B: AHN, Clero, c. 1649/2 (Plate 1). C: AHN, ms 994, fol. 15r (Plate 2). Ed. Menéndez Pidal [MP], Documentos num. 16 (apud B, compared with C); Huidobro and Cantera (names of Christian witnesses omitted); González de Fauve [GF] num. 52 (apud C); Rodríguez de Diego [RD] num. 65 (apud B and C indiscriminately).

Figure 1. AHN, Clero, c. 1649/2: 1187, Aguilar de Campoo. Purchases of three mills in Aguilar. Photograph by the author, by kind permission of the National Archives, Madrid. F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 295 [139]

Figure 2. AHN, ms 994 [Cartulario de Aguilar de Campoo], fol. 15r. Copy of AHN, Clero, c. 1649/2: 1187, Aguilar de Campoo: Carta de los molinos de la uega de Mael. Photograph by the author, by kind permission of the National Archives, Madrid. 49505152 B [“1187” version]C [Cartulary copy (c. 1235)] [I] Carta đ los molinos| de la uega de mael. Ego mael τ uxor mea merian facen cõpra | Ego mael τ uxor mã meriã cõpramos de los molinos. delauega. La racion de fi lios demichael petreri49 la part de| fi ios ð migael pet; /de campo\ q an delcampo50 /de petro michaellet τ de mari en los molinos de la ue-|ga. ð pº migaell; ð michaellez [sic] et de marina [michaellet]\ mari migaell; de marina migaell;| la decima menos lax/e\ma. por tres la decima menos la ſexma por tres .mor. τ τ τ morauedis. tercia . . . ťcia. & la|7 ratiõ ð fi ios ð pedº peñilla de | madre ſtephania. ſue mað ſteuania. ladecima menos laxema por. treſ | la decima menos la ſexma por. tres .mor. morauedis. & laracion demichael p͂trez.τde mari gutz̃ τ & la racion| ð migael peð. τ ð mariguť τ ð dep͂tro fi lio ſo ermano. media uez. por dos peð fi io ſo ermano. me-|dia uez. por dos . morauedis. mor.

49 Sic. Looks like an error for “petri.” 50 Sic, with “m” before “p.” 51 52 [140] 296 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

(cont.) & la racion defi lios dep͂tro ſ-[tephanez . . . τ & la ratiõ ð fi ios pº ſteuan; ð| uilla fafi la. ð de] | ſteuano. τ ð mari peð. qarta ð uez. por| un . mari p͂trez. qarta de uez. por ·i· morauedi. mor. & laracion de dep͂tro ſtephanez. ełb̃.51 la & la raciõ de pº ſtephan; el abbad. la ſexma uez. por ·v· ſoldus. ſexma uez.| por ·v· ſoł. & laracion dedomıgo͂ ioh̄ nes de ma/ta\ & la raciõ ð domıgo͂ ioh̄ nes ð mataluanie- luanega que dizen elrrie. por morauedi. |ga q ̃ dizen el rei. por .mor. τ ťcia. τtertia. laťcia /de la u[ez]\ menos la [sexma & laracion la ťcia ð la uez menos | la ſexma. & la raciõ de doña iusta de piedra portun por] i· m. ð doña iuſta ð pieda portun. por|·i· .mor.

[(Col. 3)

| Zac baua. ts.̂ Zac de caſtro. ts.̂ Bellido. ts.̂ Zac baua. ts.̂ Zac ð caſtro. ts.̂ bellido. ts.̂

| michael de ſobrado. ts.̂ Petro carrillo. ts.̂ | michael| ð ſobrado. ts.̂ Petº carrillo. ts.̂

Joh ̄ n de [ferrera. ts.]̂ Juã de ferrera. ts.̂

[(Col. 1) ̉ | Petro martinez delas fonteſ. ts.̂ Andreſ Pº martin; ð las fõtes. ts.|̂ Anðs ð las fõtes. đlas fonteſ. ts.̂ Dongilli ts.̂ Gonzaluo ts.̂ don gil ts.̂ Goçaluo ð uille ferrando. ts.̂ deuille ferrando. ts.̂

| Domıgo͂ ab̃b. ts.̂ Fide martin ioh̄ nes. ts.̂ Domıgo|͂ abbad. ts.̂ Fide martin iuañes. ts.̂ Pela ioh̄ nes ts.̂ Domıgo͂ decoral ts.̂ Martin Domıgo͂ ð corral ts.|̂ Martin de olleros. ts.̂ de olleros ts.̂ | don felip. ts.̂ Petro garcez. ts.̂ Don fi lip. ts.̂ Pº garciez. ts.̂ Domıgo͂ det̃ Domingo dent fi diador por ferlo ſano. a fi ador| por ferlo ſano. a tod demãdador. tot demandador. Domingo marido| de ſtephanie. fi diador. Domingo marido de ſteuania| fi ador por por ferlo ſano. Protro52 carneruno. ts.̂ don ferlo ſano. Petº caneruno. ts.̂ don helias ts.̂ Һelias ts.̂ Saluador. ts.̂ Saluador. ts.̂ τ τ Michael p͂trez fi diador. uendedor.| | Micael peð fi ador uededor.̃ Gõçaluo de Gonzaluo delos ollmos. ts.̂ p͂tro tolleto. ts.̂ los olmos. ts.̂ petº toleto.| ts.̂ Petº martin; ð p͂tro martinez delas fonteſ. ts.̂ Domingo las fõtes. ts.̂ Domıgo͂ cõde. ts.̂ Gõçaluo [con]te. ts.̂ Gonzaluo gonzaluez ts.̂ |Fide gõçaluet ts.|̂ pala ioh ̄ nes. ts.̂ Domıgo͂ arm̃talez. ts.̂ p͂tro Fi de pela iuañes. ts.̂ Domıgo͂ arm̃talet. ts.̂ monzogia fi ador por ferlo ſano. ts.̂ Petº m̃çoga fi ador por ferlo ſano. ts.̂ |Zach baua. ts.̂ Һalab. ts.̂ Zac deſaldana. ts.̂ |—Һalab. ts.̂ Zach de ſaldaña. ts.̂ Juceph

Jucep ferrero. ts.̂ Jago chufon. ts.̂ | Һazecrin ferrero. ts.̂ Jago chufon. ts.̂ Azecrin| ferrero. ferrero. ts.̂ Һalap uedi. ts.̂ Juzep deleuanza. ts.̂ Һalap uedi. ts.̂ Jucep ð leuãza. ts.̂ Juzep ts.̂ Juzep ferrero. ts.̂ ferrero. ts.̂

51 Unusual abbreviation, a variation of “ab͂b” (= “abbas”). Th e cartulary’s copyist has transcribed it without hesitation as “el abbad”. Omitted by RD. 52 Sic. Error for “Petro.” F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 297 [141]

(cont.) | |Era .ma.cca.xxa.va.| | Regnant rex alfonſus cũ urore ſue alienor. entoleto. τincaſtella. Comite ferrandus alferaz.

| Roi gutz̃ maiordomuſ. Lop diaz merinus. Lope p͂trez enaqilar. τinuilla ſcuſa. ſenior.

[II] ſ ſ ſ | Jõn fi lio đ petro penilla uendio la e ma | Juan fIIo ð petº penilla uediõ la ſexma ð delos molinos delauega| τ delaqarta del hotro los molinos ð la uega τ ð la qarta| ðl otº molino laqarta por un morauedi τ ·iii· molino por un .mor. τ ·iii· ſoł a mair halaph ſoldos amair| falahp fi ð iago milano. fi ð iago milano. ts.̂

falahp ferrero. ts.̂ faui ſormano. ts.̂ | Zac | Һalaph ferrero. ts.̂ Һaui ſo ermano. ts.̂ Zac ierno đ iuceph. ts.̂ Abrafã. ts.̂ m̃ ioh̄ nſ ierno ð iuceph. ts.̂ Abrahã. ts.̂ | Martin đuilla falila. ts.̂ |doillano. ts.̂ Pelaio. ts.̂ ioh̄ nſ ð uilla falila. ts.̂ don illano. ts.̂ Pelaio. s dñico ﬁ ð petro feliçeç. ts.̂ dñico ual. ts.̂ | ts.̂ domıgo͂ ﬁ ð pº felize . ts.̂ | domıgo͂ ual.

Joan iermano đ fuet. ts.̂ dñico đ eſteuania| ts.̂ Juan ermano ð fuet. ts.̂ domıgo͂ ð i i ﬁ ador đ ferlo ſano đ toto homne q lo eſteua-|nia ﬁ ador ð ferlo ſano ð tod oe ̃ q l demandar. demandar.

[III]

| Fide petro penniella martino uediõ | Fide petº penjlla martino uediõ la uez ð uendio lauez deloſ molinos dela uega. a los molinos ð la uega. a mael. medio mael. | medio molino. τ /media\ octaua de molino. media τ octaua ð molino. por un molino. por uno. morauedi .ii. ſolds. .mor.ii. ſoł. | medio. medio.

| don fl aino. ts.̂ don michael elb̃. teſte. don don fl aino. ts.̂ dõ migael el abb̃. ts.̂ domıgo͂ domingo de ſtephania. fi diador.| Joh̄ an de ſtephania. fi ador. Juan uecino. ts.̂ Juã ueci[no] teſte. Joh̄ an uelaz. teſte. Rab̃bi uelaz. ts.̂ Rabbi Һalaph. ts.̂ Rabbi zac. ts.̂ | Һalaph. teſte. Rab̃bi zac. teſte. Zac. ts.̂ Nonbre bono. ts.̂

| Jzac. teſte. Nonbre bono. teſte. martin ab̃b teſte. Martı ͂abbad. ts.̂ martinus pſb̃r. literas feč. τ teſti[. . .] en iſtas cõpras que teſtimonia4 iud[ios] τ xp͂ianos. Era .ma.cca.xxa.va. Regnante rex aldefõſo cˆ uxore ſua elienor. τ ı ͂toleto. | in caſtella. Comite fernãdo Lopdiaz .ﻭalferaz. Roi gut ̃maiordom merino. Lope petrez en agilar. τ ı ͂uillaſcuſa. ſeñor. [142] 298 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

Appendix B 1219, October 25, Friday, [Aguilar de Campoo]. Orosol and her son Isaac sell their share of the market’s mill in Aguilar.

B: AHN, MS 994, fols. 62v-63r (Plate 3). Ed. Fita, “Aguilar de Campóo” 341-342; MP, Documentos num. 23; GF num. 215; RD num. 288, with date of October 16).

De los iudios.| Del molinillo sobrel mercado.

i s Fuemos ſtantes testigos robrados aq aſſi fue | que dixieron a no oro ſol bibda de iuceph | de τ s i leuanza zac ſo fi lio fi jo de iuceph | de leuanza. ſeed ſobre nos teſtigo cō q nnan | cōplido τ s τ τ eſcreuid robrad ſobre no cō toda | lengua de fi rmedumne dad al abbad dō | micael al i s τ conuēt de ſcā maria đ aguilar por | ſeer en lur mano por fi rmedūne pienes que| p ſiemo s τ τ s s a s recebimos dello ·CC· diez moraue-|dis uēdiemo ad ellos por ello todas las tres | q rta del molino q ̃ auiemos en aguilar enel mer-|cado. τ ſues exidas τ ſues entradas. τ aducha | đ ſues s τ s s τ s τ s agua . ſo puecho̰ sue cōpoſturas | arroio de ſues aguas. del auiſmo faſta altura | de lo s τ s s cielo . de lo aladanno del molino. de | lado uno dñico fuet. đ lado segundo martī | andres. τ s s de lado ťcero bia de los muchos. | uēdiemo ad ello la uēdida eſta uēdida cō-|plida affi rmad τ affi rmada. taiada τ trasta-|iada. ñ apor tornar en ella por conſieglo. τ nō | por demudar τ τ nuent enfuercen enna uē-|dida eſteﻭ della a ſieglos. baian el abbad| el mēbrado el τ τ τ i forzamiēto cōplido a por cō ſieglo | ereden fraguen desfraguen den en don | a q en τ τ uoluntaren. fagan en ella lur uo-|luntad. lur uoluntad [sic]. por q ̃ cō oio fermoſo | uēdiemos ad elloſ la uēdida esta. τ ñ rema-|nexiemos en ella pora nrõ cuerpo τ non |[fol. τ i a 63r] | pora uiniētes de nrã fuerza ninguna remaſi-|gia enel sieglo. tod q uiniere de q tro par-|tes del ſieglo fi jo o fi ja ermano o ermana | pminco̰ o lonninco eredador o biſeredador| τ udio o xp͂iano. cō carta o ſin carta. ſuxtare | ſobrellos ſobre la uēdida eſta en alguna | guisa τ s τ en el ſieglo ſean ſos uierbos baldados | p͂ciado por tieſto frecho q ̃ ñ a en el prod. | ſobre τ τ s nos por eſpazer por enxauorrar đ | ſobrellos tod xuſtador razonador de los ui-|niēte de s τ lur fuerza. faſta ques affi rme en | lur mano la uendida eſta cō poder de ſobrello | sobre lures s s s τ s eredadore deſpo ello . sobre tod | lures ganados de ſuelo de mueble. Acom̃-|demo por τ a a τ eſcreuir por robrar en dia ſeſmo| dize q tro dias al mes de marfeſuan. anno | q tro mil nueb ciētos τ oiaenta en aguilar.

Teſtigos. Semuel, ﬁ jo de iuceph milano; Guerſō, ﬁ jo de iuceph el guer. F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 299 [143]

Figure 3. AHN, ms 994 [Cartulario de Aguilar de Campoo], fols. 62v- 63r. Copy of a lost original dated Friday, 25 October 1219, [Aguilar de Campoo]: Orosol and her son Isaac sell their share of the market’s mill in Aguilar. Photograph by the author, by kind permission of the National Archives, Madrid. [144] 300 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

Appendix C 1220, March 4, Wednesday [Aguilar de Campoo] Isaac and his wife, Orosol, sell their share in the mills called “de la Ravia,” located next to the town’s market and St Michael’s church, to the abbot and monastery of Santa María in Aguilar.

B: AHN, ms 994, fol. 64r-b (Plate 4). Ed. Fita, “Aguilar de Campóo” 343-44; MP, Documentos num. 24; GF num. 224; RD num. 298.

De los molinos de la rauia.

i i Fuemoſ p̉ſtoſ noſ teſtigoſ robradoſ iuſo enna hora q|̃ p ſieron q nnam cõplido dagora oro ſol τ i ſo marido zac| fi de iuceph đ leuãza. dixieron a noſ ſeed ſobre noſ| teſtigoſ cõ q nnan cõp- τ τ lido eſcreujd robrad ſobre noſ en | toda lengua ð fi rmedumne dad al abbad dõ michael| τ i τ uet̃ por ſeer en lur mano | por fi rmedũne pieneſ que p ſiemoſﻭ de ſcã maria ð aguilar al τ recebimoſ delloſ cietõ | morauediſ buenoſ alfonſiſ uediemõ ſ ad elloſ por elloſ | toda la parte q ̃ era a noſ ennoſ molinoſ đ mercado q ̃ leſ | dizen loſ molinoſ đ la rauja q ̃ ſon en eſpliego del τ mcadỏ | de aguilar que ſon cerca ſant michael uediemõ ſ a elloſ | eſta uedidã cõplida affi r- τ mada deſtajada traſtajada. | por nõ por tornar en ella ia maſ por nõ demudar della | ia maſ. τ uet̃ đ ſcã maria | ð aguilar afuezen en eſta uedidã aforzamietõﻭ baian el abbad dõ michael. el τ τ τ i i cõplido| por ia maſ hereden fraguen. deſaten den en don| aq queſ q ſieren fagan en ella lur uelũtad q ̃ cõ oio fermoſo | uediemõ ſ a elloſ eſta uedidã ñ remanexiemoſ en ella pora| nrõ i τ cuerpo ni por aloſ q uinieren ð nrã fuerza ningun | remanecimietõ en eſt ſieglo. ſi ujniere a ð q tro parteſ del | ſieglo fi jo o fi ja. ermano o ermana ̲pminco o lonninco| heredador o τ biſeredador. iudio o xp͂iano. xuſtaren ſobre | eſta uedidã ſean ſueſ palabraſ baldadaſ p͂ciadaſ τ por un | tieſto chebrãtado q ̃ ñ a en el prod. affi rmeſ en lureſ| manoſ. eſta uedidã cõ τ a τ ſoſ ̲puechoſ. cõ el rio ð ſueſ aq s. | de ſuſo ð iuſo del abiſſo faſta loſ cieloſ. enno q ̃ fomoſ τ τ | p͂ſtoſ acom̃demoſ por eſcreujr por robrar dia mjercoleſ | a bent ſiete diaſ a meſ de adar. a τ τ i τ anno ð q tro mil nueb | cietõ ſ ojaenta en aq lar todo eſ fi rme. Garſon fi ð | iuceph. Moſe

ﬁ ð iago ferrero. Petº roiz de barriolo ts.̃ | Guť petrez la lej ts.̃ F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 301 [145]

Figure 4. AHN, ms 994 [Cartulario de Aguilar de Campoo], fol. 64r/b. Copy of a lost original dated Wednesday, 4 March 1220, [Aguilar de Cam- poo]: Isaac and his wife, Orosol, sell their share in the mill called “de la Ravia. Photograph by the author, by kind permission of the National Archives, Madrid. [146] 302 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

Appendix D 1178 [Aguilar de Campoo]. Andreas, abbot of Santa María de Aguilar de Campoo, purchases several plots of land.

A. AHN, Cl., leg. 1648/11, parchment. Ed. RD num. 46.

Jn dī nomine τ inſalute eťna am̃. Ego andreaſ abbaſ ſce͂ marie dagilar τ totuſ meuſ ereditat enual maior de don ﻭquã futuriſ | qđ noſ cõparam ﻭtã p͂ſentib ﻭcõuentuſ notū facim garcia de fi gar e de ſuoſ ermanoſ · de dona colūba e de dona iulana e de dona ſancha | τ de dona domenga· [1] una terra que habet afrontacioneſ depima part iuãg roio e domīgo ſarrano de ſcða la carrera· [2] alia terra īalio | loco que abet afrontacioneſ. la iuncquera de ſcða laterra de marti diez· [3] alia terra de ual ðſoto abet afrontacioneſ la terra de don mīgo | ouequez de coforcoſ de de dona colūba τ de ſua fi lia dona colūba· τ abet afrontacioneſ ·ﻭaliam terrã cõparam & [4] la quarreira de pima part | [5] alia terra en ual de ſecredal de fi lio de iuãgnez galīdez de fi gar conparauimuſ· & abet i afrontacioneſ de p ma part la terra de marti anaiz | de coforcoſ· [6] & aliã terrã dedona colūba ede ſua fi lia donaſol τ abet afrontacioneſ de pima part domīgo ouecquez· de coforcoſ· & de iſta | ereditate id eſt de ·vi· terraſ ſūt fi adoreſ de ſanamento don garcia edonlobī· de dona colūba fi ador de ſanam̃to· de duaſ terraſ | fi ador petro falco de uiluleſ. Jſta carta fuit facta era ·m·cc·vix·53 Regnante rege aldefonſo ītoleto entota caſtela cū regina elienor | comite donferãdo endogneſ e encabezo. qui p͂ſenteſ τauditoreſ fuerūt· don giruaſ t.̉ martin perrez [sic]. Sit54 domīgez t.̉ fernãſ ro-|manez t.̉ don anģreſ 55 t.̉ don iulia t.̉ marti ſuerez. velaſquez t.̉ econcilio de coforcoſ auditoreſ τ confrimatoreſ [sic] τ | Qui iſtã cartã uoluerit dirūpe̲ ſit maledictuſ excomunicatuſ cū iuda traditore in inferno am̃·56 e pectet incoto| ducentoſ marabotinoſ· loſ ·c· alabat dagilar & alioſ ·c· a illoſ qui uocē illorū pulſa-|uit̉ elereditat duplada ī tali loquo.

53 Sic. Lege “MCCXVI”, as RG does without discussion. 54 Variant spelling of “Cid.” 55 Letter g seems emended with a vertical trait, perhaps to be read as a d. RG: “Andres.” 56 Lege “amen.” F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 303 [147]

Appendix E Aguilar, 1186. Abbot Andreas purchases the monastery of San Salvador de Nestar de Campo

A. AHN, Clero, c. 1648/19. B. AHN, Clero, cód. ms 994 (Cartulario de Aguilar), fol. 16v. Ed. MP, Documentos num. 15 and Crestomatía 55 (apud A).

A B De eneſtar de cãpo| τ Jn dei nomine. Ego peidro martinez & In đi nomine. Ego Petº martinez.| lop Lop diaz & ferranroiz & ordon martinez diaz. τ ferrand roiz. τ ordon mar-|tinez. uendemoſ auoſ abbat ð sa ma ð Aqilar. & uendemos a uos abbad| de ſcã maria de ueſtros fratres. aguilar τ uros̃ frs.|̃ elmone moneſterio de ſanct caluador. el monaſterio de ſant ſaluador de| eneſtares de eneſtares de campo. cum toda ſua de campo cũ tota ſua he-|ditad. hereditad. τ el palacio de ferrand gar-|ciaz la pelleia cũ & hel palacio de ferran garciaz| la pelega tota ſua hereditad| cum toda ſua hereditad. τ el ſolar de ranoſa que fue de fer-|rand & hel ſolar de ranoſa ke fue de feran garciaz la pelleia cõ ſos moli-|nos. τ cõ toda garciaz la pelega con ſos molinos τ con ſua hereditad. toda| ſua hereditad. τ en| menaza un ſolar con toda ſua here- & hen menaza un ſolar con toda ſua ||[fol. 16v/b]dad. here dad. τ la heredad de pozacos τ de| menaza faſta & la heredat de pozacos. & de menaza aſta en ſoma conia en ſomo conia.| qanto| nos deuemos here dar uendemos τ| rebramos tod aqueſta heredad. por| ·c· τ ſexaginta morauedis. quanto noſ de uemoſ here dar. uendemoſ τ ſi algun| om ̃e eſta carta qiſiere crebantar. τ τ robramoſ toda queſta heredad. por ·C· con| iudas traditor aia part. en coto| regi & ſeſaenta morauedis. mil morauedis pectet. τ tal he-|redad τ en & ſi algun huem-|bre heſta carta quiſiere tal logar. crebantar con iudaſ traditor haia part & en Facta carta| sub era ·ma·cca·xxa·IIIia. coto regi mil morauedis pectet. τ tal heredat Regnante| rege aldefonſo cũ regina alienor τ & en| tal logar. in| toleto ı ͂caſtella. Roi gutierez| maior .regis ﻭFacta carta ſub era milleſima. ducenteſima. dom uiceſima quarta. Lop diaz merino| maior regis. Lop diaz Regnante rex Aldefonſuſ. cum regina| alﬁ eraz. .ep͂s ﻭalienor en toleto τ en caſtella. Roi gutierez Burgen-|ſis marin nris̃ ſiue ﻭregiſ. & ſi aliqis homo ſiue| ex parentib ﻭmaior dom ex alienis iſtã| cartã frangere uoluerit: ſit τ ﻭ τ ﻭ maledict | excõminicat . cũ iuda .ﻭin inferno dãpnat ﻭtraditore| dãpnat Diac| diac de forna ts.̃ Goſtio diaz ts.|̃ Diac petriz de buſtamant ts.̃ Filio| de roy cãpo petº roiz ts.|̃ Ferrãd mu|nioz ts. [148] 304 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

Appendix F [c. 1166-1170], March 22 [Toledo]. Leocadia, daughter of don Illán Abolcasim, and her son, don Lope Juanes, sell a vineyard in Aceca to don Miguel and his wife Amadona.

A. AHN, OO.MM., Calatrava, c. 457/75bis (olim P-245). Badly preserved parchment, torn in the place where the date was written. Reg. Rodríguez-Picavea, “Documentos” 284 num. 598 (suggests date of 1166-1169).

-grã. Ego leocadia fi lia de don Illan Abolcasim τ meo fi lio don lop ioɧ̄s| uen ﻭIn đi nõie τ ei demos ad uos don micael τ ad urã mulier ama dona la uinna que habemus| in aceca in la [ue]ga. por ·xii· mºs. τ með. & esta uinna habet in sua linde de parte| de orient: iacet la uinna de sct͂ climent. & de parte de medio dia: iacet la| uinna de almeric τ de suos ermanos. & de parte de occident: iacet la uinna| de petro garcia. & de parte de septemtrion: iacet la uinna de steuan alcamon.| Ego leocadia sobre nombrada τ meo fi lio don lop ioɧ̄s uos uendemos esta| uinna sobre escripta ad uos sobre nombrado don micael τ ad urã mulier ama| dona cũ todas suas derecturas τ cũ suas entradas τ suas exidas. τ cũ todos suos arbo-|[le]s τ todos suos fruchales que son en esta uinna sobre nombrada. τ somos pagados| [de los ·xii· m]ºs. τ með. τ la uinna es urã de hodie dia en adelant. [qu]e la aiades| por heredat uos τ urõ s fi lios τ urã natura. τ aiades sobre ella libre potestad que| fagades della lo que quisieredes dedes.57 uendades. camiedes. fagades della todo| lo que uos ploguier.

& si aliquis de urõ genere aut de alieno per oc factũ nrm|̃ ad dirrupendũ uenerit: sit male- τ .ﻭτ cũ iuda dnı ͂ tra-|ditore τ cũ nerone ıp͂ ̲atore in inferno dãpnat ﻭdictus τ excomunicat pectet in coto parti regie ·x· mºs. | τ uobis alios ·xcem· τ ista uinnea dupplata tali loco us[que si]mili labore. facta carta ı|͂ mense marcio ·xiº· kłs apił. Sub era . . . 58 [Regnante rege] alde- ﻭfonso ﬁ lio| regis sancii59 in toleto τ ı ͂ tota castella τ stremadura. Alcaaldes ı ͂Toleto melend -rei sũt testes qui hic noıa͂ sua sub ﻭlã-|paer. τ alcaid dõ petro diaz. Aluuazir dõ Paris. H i ﻭ i 60 |sc bũt. ------| Don seruant ﬁ li dñici atiger tsť.̃ sc pser ̃ p̲ eo. | stefanus roman tsť.̃ martiniz sciptor eccłie sci͂ nicholay. morans in uico| sce͂ leocadie qui hanc cartam ﻭEgo dñic notaui audiendo τ uidendo hoc factum τ| hoc concertum. testis.

57 Sic. Perhaps should read “. τ dedes.” 58 Tear, which has taken the year and the beginning of the next sentence. 59 Th e identiﬁ cation of Alfonso VIII as son of Sancho III, and without Queen Leonor, suggests the letter should be dated before his marriage to her, celebrated in the summer of 1170 (González, Alfonso VIII 1: 190). Melendo Lampader y Pedro Díaz, mentioned next as alcaldes held that position, as judges of Mozarabs and Christians, respectively, between 1166 and 1179 (Hernández, “Mozárabes” 109). Hence my dating of 1166-1170. 60 Th is Arabic signature with very atypical calligraphy which I am unable to read, also appears in the bequest of Sancha de Figuera to the cathedral of Toledo in March 1185 (ACT, E.11.A.1.8). F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306 305 [149]

Appendix G 1181, January 3, Toledo. Th e master of Calatrava oﬀ ers lands in Ocaña to the noble Tello Pérez so that he may colonize them with new settlers and beneﬁ t from them during his lifetime.

AHN, OO.MM. Calatrava, c. 455/3. Ed. Ortega y Cotes, Álvarez de Baquedano, and Ortega Zúñiga y Aranda 16; MP, Documentos num. 260 (omits the subscriptions following the name of the royal com- mander [alférez] ).

.peti ﻭuentũ. τ ego tellﻭ Jn nomine dñi nrĩ iɧ̄u xi. amen. Ego mg̃r de calatraua τ totũ .peti p ̲ a ·xxxa· iugos de boues ﻭub̃ tell ﻭauinentia τ dem ﻭſpontanea nrã uolun-|tate facim p ̲ a ·ve· henziruelos. p ̲ a | ·xe· hen malagon. p ̲ a ·xici· hen alarcos. p ̲ a ·iiiior· en benauent. ub̃ occanna. p ̲ tal ﻭub̃| ɧ̄editate ̃ en uros̃ dias. τ dem ﻭp ̲ a todos iſtos iugos de boues. dem plecto q ̃ la pobledes. τ q ̃ habeatis in uros̃ dias. τ de| poſt obitum urm̃ remaneat ala meſon. peti de los ganados q ̃ ibi traðitis accipietis de las ieguas los potros τ de las| baccas ﻭτ ub̃ tell los boues. τ caſeũ τ manteccã. τ de las oues los carn̉os τ caſeum τ lanam. τ de las porcas los τ de pan. de iſtos canados aueth poder de ſachar en la |ﻭporcos. hi nos que uos lo cõtengam uentũ.61> τ poſt urm̃ﻭ meetate qando numqam uoluitis̉ <τ alťa medietate accipiãt mg̃r τ obitum remaneat la medietate| del ganado q ̃ ibi fuit̉ allora toto remaneat alla meſon. hi los boues con la medietate del pan que ibi fuit̉ allora remaneat toto alla| meſon. facta carta ̲ sic] in toleto τ p] ﻭintoleto. era .ma.cca.x.aviiiia· iiiº· nonas ianuarij. Regnante rege aldefonſ totã caſtellam.| |.fﻭ curie regis ﻭf. Roðicus guterriz maiordomﻭ Gomez garſie alferiz curie regis [column 1:] .fﻭ ſenior de Toledo τ de atentia ﻭComes petr .fﻭ tenetẽ amaia τ totum treuiniũ τ aſturias τ caſtella uiega ﻭComes fredinand .fﻭ sic] tenente talaurả τ trugello] ﻭroðic ﻭfredinand [Signum: Latin cross.] signvm oei + calatrave [column 2:] .[f [sicﻭ archiep͂s toletanenſis ﻭJn iſto anno tanſmigauit cerebrun .fﻭ regis ﻭcardonenſis cancellari ﻭPetr .fﻭ caſtellanenſis magiſter calatauenſis ſcipſit et tradit captivos de illo de ťra mauro4 ﻭPelagi

61 Sentence placed at the bottom of the text, following the subscriptions, with no indication of where it should be inserted, but it seems to ﬁ t here best. [150] 306 F. J. Hernández / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 259-306

Appendix H 1188 [Peñaﬁ el]. Doña Sol, abbess of the convent of Las Huelgas de Burgos, reaches an agreement with settlers in the vicinity of the Duratón river.

A1.- AMHB. Leg. 35, n. 1573-A. A2.- AMHB. Leg. 35. n. 1573-F. Ed. MP, Documentos num. 152 (apud A2); Lizoain Garrido num. 18 (apud A2).

Transcription of A1. i In nomine sce͂ et ındiuidue͂ t nitatis patris et fi lii et sp͂s sci͂ am̃. Ego donna sol abadessa de| sca͂ maria la real de burgos do una ťra que es enduraton amedias aponer maiolo a don feles| et alobo. τ con toda sua frontada del rio. τ que fagan en el rio de duos| molinos fata tres otro si amedias. τ los molinos que sean fectos fata sant michael τ que los| fagan don feles e don -todo suo apareiamento.| & de pues que los moli ﹸlobo, asi quomo molinos deuen seder con nos fueren fectos si agua abinere qe crebante en la pesquera algu-|na cosa: que lo fagan en los molinos alguno crebantare otro si a medias: | et si la pesquera ﹸamedias. τ si portello τ olos molinos leuare el agua ques assolen: que los faga don feles et don| lobo; esta ťra del maiolo que sea la media oganno posta. τ qe la labren lo doganno, si maes| non puderen: duas uices, τ lo al que remanecere que sea posto logo otro anno. τ desend ari-|ba, qe lo labren cadanno tres uices. τ qando el maiolo leuare. τ los molinos fueren fectos et| moleren: ﹸ a τ q ndo la abadessa quisere que partan. de ista ťra son aladannos. iohan martinez| fi lio de martin anaiaz. τ de alia parte: martin martinez fi lio de martin domıgez.͂ τ de| alia parte: gonsaluo martinez. τ domıgo͂ /petrez\ fi lio de petº sordo. τ una ťra de sco͂ domıgo͂ qe tene| en τ e e fronte. dio por mano el abadessa a frair iohan q fue de mazola. q los metesse en| la ťra et en el rio amedias, afondos ťra. τ el metiolos en ello otrosi quomo el abbadessa man-|do. Testigos Major ferrandez piora del monesťio. Maria guterrez. t ̃. Sancia garciez la canto-|ra. t ̃. Sancia diaz .t ̃. τ todo el conuent. t ̃. Johan diaz de pennafi del. t ̃. Don paðno. t ̃. Garcia| fi lio de don Remondo. t ̃. Martin martinez. t ̃. Don abril. t ̃. Martin andres. t ̃. Michael Nunio. t ̃. | Peto Nunio. t ̃. Gonsaluo martinez. t ̃. Don bñdicto. t ̃. Domıgo͂ martin fi lio de doca. t ̃. El abbad don ﹸmartin an-|naiaz. t ̃. El abbad don martin de sant cipian de monte |cũ la regina ﻭnunio| de ual bona. t ̃. Facta carta sub era ·maccaxxvia· Regnante rex Alfons alienor ı ͂suo regno. Sennora in pennafi dele La regina alienor. & de sua mano es alca-|iade ı ͂ pennafi dele don nunio. Judex Domıgo͂ munioz el neto de donna Cida. Sangion| Petro belascho. Garsias notauit. Medieval Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture Encounters in Confluence and Dialogue Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 307-318 brill.nl/me

Th e Moors?

Ross Brann Department of Near Eastern Studies, 413 White Hall, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY 14853-7901, USA e-mail: [email protected]

Abstract “Th e Moors?” interrogates the ﬁ gure of “the Moor” in some of its medieval and modern textual and cinematic incarnations. Th is essay discusses the ﬁ gure’s historical evolution and instability and comments on its particular social agency in medieval Iberia.

Keywords Moor, Berber, Almoravid, El Cid, al-Andalus

I was called Moorish Moraima, young Mooress of a lovely appearance; A Christian came to my door, cuytada to deceive me. He spoke to me in Arabic, As one who knows it well: “Open your doors to me, Mooress, . . . I am the Moor, Mazote, . . .” Romance de la morilla burlada (trans. Mirrer 26-27)

“Falsehood is not in me, beloved, As in my breast there is not one drop Of blood from the blood of Moors Or the dirty Jews.”

“Leave the Moors and the Jews,” Said the knight, gently caressing her. And beneath a myrtle tree He led the Alcalde’s daughter . . .

And the knight, sweetly smiling, Kisses the ﬁ ngers of his lady,

Kisses her lips and her forehead, And ﬁ nally speaks these words:

“I, Señora, your beloved, Am the son of the much-praised, Great learned Rabbi, Israel of Saragossa.” Donna Clara, Heinrich Heine (trans. Bea Rosenberg)

More than a century after the fall of Nasrid Granada to the Catholic monarchs Ferdinand and Isabel in 1492, the seventeenth-century North African scholar Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad al-Maqqarī compiled Th e Sweet Fragrance of the Lush Bough of al-Andalus (Nafh ̣ al-Ṭīb min ghusṇ al-andalus al-ratīḅ ), a monumental Arabic social and cultural history of al-Andalus from the eighth through fi fteenth centuries. For al-Maqqarī, who never saw al-Andalus except through the lens of the texts available to him, al-Andalus conjured images of agricultural abundance and extraordinary cultural accomplishment on the one hand (al-Maqqarī 1: 129) and recalled the demise of an Islamic polity on the Iberian Peninsula on the other (“May God restore it to Islam” [al-Maqqarī 1: 175-176]). Reading late medieval and early modern North African scholars such as al-Maqqarī draws attention to the Muslims’ persistent, even tenacious, memories of al-Andalus and its legacy. It also underscores the obvious fact that medieval Iberia was characterized by a high degree of religious, ethnic, linguistic and cultural diversity long before multiculturalism became a touchstone in our own raging culture wars. When al-Andalus—conven- tionally deemed “Muslim Spain” or “Islamic Spain”—came of age in the ninth and tenth centuries as a center of urban culture, prosperous economic power and independent polity ruling most of the Iberian Peninsula, the country comprised three ethno-cultural religious communities: Moz- arabic Christians, Jews and Muslims. Th e Muslims of al-Andalus were themselves an intermarried blend. At one time their religious community comprised four sub-groups: muwalladūn—converts from native Iberian families and their descendants; Arabs—of Syrian and Yemeni ancestry; saqāliba—̣ Slavs, that is, praetorian guards of European origin brought to Iberia as slaves at a young age, along with their descendants; and “old” and “new” Berbers—those arriving earlier and more recently from North Africa. Relations among and within these communities, whose members spoke Arabic and some Romance, were exceedingly complex, frequently R. Brann / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 307-318 309 [153] shifting and hardly ever entirely harmonious. Nevertheless, the mix of Arabo-Islamic, Romance-Christian, and Judeo-Hebrew cultural elements contributed to a singularly Iberian pluralism whose patterns of extensive social interaction and cultural interpenetration proved to have lasting power when they were transferred from al-Andalus to Castile and nurtured and maintained in thirteenth-century Toledo. For all the permeability of its political, social, religious, linguistic and cultural borders, it is nevertheless still scarcely possible to speak of medieval Iberia without falling directly into a fray over its contested cultural identity, whose dual historicity, medieval and modern, make it especially problematic. To speak of the culture of medieval “Spain” necessarily involves a critical decision with broad historical implications. Th e student of medieval Iberia must determine whether, and to what extent, to remember or forget the artifacts of cultures conducted in languages belonging to a radically diff erent linguistic family on behalf of other civilizations asserting their communities’ own deep association with the Peninsula. Th at is, should modern-day scholarship suppress or invoke the coexistence and complex interaction of Romance culture with Arabic and Hebrew, and thus of Christians with Muslims and Jews in Iberia during the High Mid- dle Ages (Menocal)? A comparable and related (Western) European case is Italy, for the study of which the memory of Muslim Sicily and its culture from the ninth to the eleventh centuries must be engaged or purged. It is unclear just how pervasive such lapses in cultural memory are. Although readers of English can readily identify the character Othello as the “noble Moor of Venice,” few recall the venture of Islam in Sicily. Yet after Sicily came under the rule of Norman knights between 1061 and 1092, new Christian rulers adopted so many of the habits of their Muslim predecessors that “two who ruled from 1130-1154 and 1215-1250, respectively, were known as ‘the two baptized sultans of Sicily’ ” (Watt 76; emphasis mine). Ironically Emperor Frederick II himself extended considerable patronage to the intellectual and artistic legacy of Mediterranean Islam even as he repressed the Muslims in his kingdom—a practice and policy of appropriation auguring Alfonso X’s like-minded attempt decades later in Toledo to wrest Andalusi Arabo-Islamic culture from its bearers. If the contested cultural map of medieval Iberia has frequently been misread or ignored altogether, medieval Iberia has come to occupy a special place in the modern and postmodern literary imagination. Its multicultural situation has drawn the attention of various writers inclined to fi nd medieval Iberia appealing for reasons of their own time, place and [154] 310 R. Brann / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 307-318 cultural condition. Zofl oya or, Th e Moor (1806) by Charlotte Dacre; Manu- scrit trouvé à Saragosse (c. 1815; trans. Th e Manuscript Found in Saragossa 1996) by Jan Potocki; Heinrich Heine’s verse play Almansor (1820); Wash- ington Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra (1832); Leo Africanus (1988) by Amin Maalouf; José Saramago’s História do cerco de Lisboa (1989; trans. Th e His- tory of the Siege of Lisbon 1996); Th e Death and Life of Miguel de Cervantes (1991) by Stephen Marlowe; Tariq Ali’s Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (1992); Salman Rushdie’s Th e Moor’s Last Sigh (1995); Th e Last Kabbalist of Lisbon (1998) by Robert Zimler; and Borges’ famous short story “La busca de Averroes” (1949; trans. “Averroes’ Search” 1962) are only a few of the more inspired European-language works set in or drawing upon images, fi gures and themes from medieval Iberia. In particular these works represent evocatively a highly cultured Iberian people identifi ed as Moors, without clarifi cation of who precisely the Moors are. Andalusi Arabic sources—as opposed to later Mudejar and morisco sources in Aljamiado—neither refer to individuals as Moors nor recognize any such group, community or culture. Yet Moor and Moorish are also employed regularly in academic circles and in popular culture without much question or refl ection (Fletcher; Brett; García Gómez). Th e aforementioned scholars suggest that our own cultural artifacts employ the term Moor fl uidly, alternately referring to race—and specifi cally to African origin, to Berber as opposed to “Arab” identity—or to a North African or Iberian Muslim religious and cultural identity diff erentiated from Christian- Spanish. We are thus compelled to consider the socio-historical provenance and signifi cance of the term Moor inherited from early modern Spain. Was Moor a less ambiguous and more determined term in medieval Iberia itself? What sorts of transactions turned the Moor into a protean fi gure in Iberian cultural history? Moor (

Unlike relatively stable terms of Roman provenance inherited by Chris- tians such as Arab, Ishmaelite and Saracen, Moor is problematic because of its shifting signifi cance (Barbour 258). Isidore of Seville, who died well before Islam came to Iberia, follows Roman usage in referring to northwest Africa as Mauritania (derived from John of Biclaro, refers to the inhabitants of pre-Islamic North Africa as Moors (Wolf 64). Th e so-called Mozarabic Chronicle of 754, written by a Christian living in al-Andalus and the earliest account of the events of 711, speaks of the invading force of Muslims without racial animus as “Arabs and Moors” (Wolf 131). Th is text suggests that early in the history of al-Andalus, Moor signifi ed ‘Berber.’ African origin is clearly marked in this usage, but apparently as a geographic and ethnic rather than racial signifi er. Later documents authored in the Christian kingdoms attest to the complete transformation of Moor from a term signifying ‘Berber’ into a general term referring primarily to Muslims living in recently conquered Christian lands and secondarily to those residing in what was still left of al-Andalus. For example, the Chronicle of Nájera (from twelfth-century León) refers to ʿAbd al-Raḥmān I, the Umayyad amīr of mid-eighth-century al-Andalus, as “King of the Mauri,” and to ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III, the tenth-century Umayyad caliph, as “the (consummate) Maurus” (Barbour 258). An ele- giac passage from the thirteenth-century Alfonsine Primera crónica general (Chapter 559) recounts the events of 711 for what is construed as the (temporary) downfall of “Spain” in that year. Th e text testifi es that the semantic transformation of Moor was not nearly as benign as some readers have assumed:

Th e Moors of the host wore silks and colourful cloths which they had taken as booty, their horses’ reigns were like fi re, their faces were black as pitch, the handsomest among them was black as a cooking-pot, and their eyes blazed like fi re; their horses swift as leopards, their horsemen more cruel and hurtful than the wolf that comes at night to the fl ock of sheep. Th e vile African people who were not wont to boast of their strength nor their goodness, and who achieved everything by stealth and deceit, and who were . . . at that moment raised on high. (Smith 19; emphasis mine)

Here, Alfonsine historiography, whose audience knew ﬁ rsthand of the racial diversity of their Muslim neighbors in Toledo, shares a vocabulary developed across the Pyrenees. [156] 312 R. Brann / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 307-318

Th e thirteenth-century Poema de Fernán González, composed by a monk in the vicinity of Burgos (Smith 54), endows the semantic and fi gural arc of Moor with a peculiar but related signifi cance (Akbari). Treating the exploits of the notorious—according to Christians—al-Mansūṛ (or Alman- zor) of late-tenth-century al-Andalus, the poem recounts how the goodly count instructs his retinue in the Moors’ perfi dious and idolatrous practices and beliefs. Th e Moors, according to the count:

do not take God as a guide, but the stars; they have made of them [the stars] a new Creator . . . Th ere are others among them who know many charms, and can create very evil simulations with their spells; the devil teaches them how to stir up the clouds and the winds. Th ey associate the devil with their spells, and join up with them to form covens; they reveal all the errors of people now dead, and the treacherous dark ones [carbonientos: ‘coal-faced’] who hold council together. (Smith 57-59; emphasis mine)

Th e count’s prayers for the intervention of the Apostle and patron saint of Spain, Santiago Matamoros (St. James the Moor Slayer), redeem the Castil- ians from al-Mansūr’ṣ nefarious grip (Smith 55, 59). Various thirteenth- century chronicles credit St. James with killing some 70, 000 Moors (Van Liere 529), and in this text, the racial dehumanization and religious demonization of Moors very nearly converge. From the Poema de Fernán González and the Primera crónica we learn that Moor and Christian form a clearly established cultural opposition in thirteenth-century Castile.1 Th e extreme enmity inscribed herein was probably driven in part by the Andalusi-Mudejar rebellion of 1264-1265 and by the Marinid invasion of 1272-1375 (Harvey 51-54, 153-160). Yet this dichotomy is also already evident in the medieval Spanish expression “ni moro ni cristiano” (‘no one’) and apparent in the perfectly wrought symmetry of line 731 in the ﬁ rst Cantar of the Poema de mio Cid: “Th e Moors called on Muḥammad and the Christians on St James” (Hamilton and Perry 60-61). Moor in these and other texts of similar provenance underscored for Christian readers not only the Muslims’ religious and cultural otherness but also and more particularly their “foreign,” racialized African origins: their misplaced and thus temporary presence as outsiders supposedly without roots in Castile. Having come from another, darker place, the Moors surely belonged somewhere else.

1 Th is opposition survives in the form of the name of the Cuban dish moros y cristianos: that is ‘[white]rice and [black] beans.’ R. Brann / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 307-318 313 [157]

Visual images produced during this period reinforce the texts’ racial opposition of Moor to “Spanish” Christian. For example a detail from frescoes in the palace of Berenger de Aguilar, Barcelona, portrays a white knight stabbing and throwing a blackamoor from the battlements during the Aragonese capture of Majorca in 1229 (Brett 67). It was not much of a conceptual leap for Christians of Castile and León (and Aragón, Catalo- nia, Navarre and Galicia) to believe that “Spain” could not fi nd itself as a nation until such racial and religious others vanished or were forced to disappear incrementally. Eventually, the Moors would disappear in the late fi fteenth through early seventeenth centuries (Harvey 1-3). Because of its potent connotations, Moor arguably served as the principal linguistic vehicle for suppressing the indigenous nature of the Andalusi Muslim cultural heritage in Iberia and rendering Andalusi Muslims as others in a projected Christian Iberia. It enabled Christians in thirteenth- century Castile to dismiss as “foreign” the substantially mixed Andalusi Muslim population to their south, as well as Castile’s own Mudejars, and to disregard the extent of social and cultural ties among all Andalusis, including Muslims from Africa. Christian longing for a world of religious, cultural, ethnic and political unity—rather than diversity—eff ectively interfered with and rewrote the cultural history of the Peninsula in accordance with the polity that they not only imagined for themselves but then constructed for their new religious and linguistic community. To complicate matters further, our own socio-historical condition inter- feres in subtle and not so subtle ways with understanding the varied historical infl ections of the seemingly innocuous appellation Moor. Two well-known fi lms produced a generation apart will serve to illustrate this problem and give a sense of its implications for achieving a nuanced presentation of the intersection of cultures and communities in medieval Iberia. In the fi rst instance, there is the “historical” epic El Cid, a 1961 production that represented an unusual collaboration. Ramón Menéndez Pidal, the eminent dean of Spanish philology and historiography, and inci- dentally Américo Castro’s mentor, served as principle historical advisor for the cinematic re-telling of Poema de mio Cid. Menéndez Pidal’s association with the fi lm thus conferred historical “authenticity” on the project, corresponding to the crucial role he played earlier in re-establishing the Cid as a Spanish national hero (Fletcher 5; Linehan 437-450). It is worth keeping these observations in mind as the narrator intones: [158] 314 R. Brann / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 307-318

Th is is Spain, one thousand and eighty years after the coming of Christ. It is a war-torn unhappy land, half-Christian, half-Moor. Th is is the time and the story of Rodrigo Díaz of Vivar known to history and to legend as El Cid, “the lord.” He was a simple man who became Spain’s greatest hero. He rose above religious hatred and called upon all Spaniards whether Christian or Moor to face a common enemy who threatened to destroy their land of Spain. Th is enemy was gathering his savage forces across the Med- iterranean Sea on the north shores of Africa. He was the African emir Ben Yusef. (transcription and emphasis mine)

Th e dazzling quiet of the Iberian sunset in this opening scene fades away or, more precisely, is shattered by the menacing image of black-caped horseman riding to the ominous rumble of beating drums. Th en, the emir Ben Yusef clad entirely in black (played by the inimitable British character actor Herbert Lom of Pink Panther lore) addresses a captive band of color- fully dressed Iberian Muslims—Andalusis for sure. His frenzied discourse and sinister demeanor are not solely the product of the fi lmmakers’ imagination and a document of Cold War culture but are representative of the conventional view Arab historiographers and Western historians have taken toward the Almoravid—and Almohad—Berbers as “barbaric nomads” (O’Callaghan 208). Ben Yusef’s words in the fi lm also anticipate by forty years some of the popular images of Middle Eastern fi gures that fl ash recur- rently across our own computer, television, video and fi lm screens today.

Th e Prophet has commanded us to rule the world! Where in all your land of Spain is the glory of Allah? When men speak of you they speak of poets, music makers, doctors and scientists. Where are your warriors? You dare call yourselves sons of the Prophet? You have become women! Burn your books! Make warriors of your poets! Let your doctors invent new poisons for our arrows. Let your scientists invent new war machines. And then, kill! Burn! Inﬁ dels befall your clutches; encourage them to kill each other, and then, when they are weak and torn I will sweep up from Africa and the empire of Allah, the true God, will spread, ﬁ rst across Spain, then across Europe, and then the whole world! (transcription mine)

Th e scene then fades into the picture of a ravaged Christian village, where an immense wooden cross has been defi led by the invaders’ arrows and buried amidst the rubble. Th e cross is rescued and borne by fair-haired Charlton Heston as Rodrigo Díaz of Vivar. Th e Moor in the fi lm’s text (the emir of Saragossa, probably modeled after Avengalvón, the Cid’s Moorish vassal in the Poema) turns out to be an idealized noble “Spanish” Muslim who ostensibly stands in contrast to the bellicose African emir and his “savage forces.” While the fi lm’s emir of R. Brann / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 307-318 315 [159]

Valencia is a duplicitous, foppish hedonist and an extreme caricature of this commonly accepted representation of the Moor, the emir of Saragossa is highly cultured and by appearance and manner devoted to the courtly good life above other endeavors. Moreover, while he initially complies with Ben Yusef’s rapacious instructions, after waging war against the Christians he ultimately joins forces with the Cid, committing himself and his legion to struggle for the peace of “Spain” and all its inhabitants. In so doing, the Moor comes to embody the fi lmmakers’ ideals of Christian (i.e. anti- Communist) valor, nobility and civility in opposition to the diabolical African Muslim. Nevertheless, the Moor also remains bound to the Afri- cans by his faith and viscerally by his swarthy appearance that more closely corresponds to Ben Yusef’s complexion than the Cid’s fl axen coloration. Th e religious kinship and racial association among the Muslims of Iberia and North Africa were in fact always manifest in bilateral travel and migration within the socio-economic and cultural unity of the Maghreb (the Muslim West). Th at intimate connection was formalized politically when the Almoravid Berbers under Yūsuf b. Tāshufīn (represented here as Ben Yusef ) incorporated al-Andalus into their North African kingdom in 1090. In this case, the fi lm’s sensitivity to a nuance of Islamic history is inadvertent and ironic: the affi nity of Muslims across the Mediterranean straits serves to undermine the fi lm’s high-minded narrative appeal to a “Spain shared by Christian and Moor.” If he is to have a place in Spain, the Moor must behave as an ersatz Christian. More consequentially, he must abandon any false hopes he may still entertain that the Moors can restore Islamic sovereignty to the Iberian lands they have lost. Th e Moor in the fi lm is rendered powerless and a political puppet of his Christian lord. He must submit to Christian rule, much as his textual counterparts in the epic and frontier ballads of what is called “Reconquest Castile” (Mirrer 50) and Rodrigo’s own idealized Moorish vassal in the Poema (Burshatin 121). Th e second fi lm example is a more conventional Hollywood historical drama of recent vintage, the 1991 production Robin Hood: Prince of Th ieves. On the face of it, this would seem a most unlikely point of reference for a discussion of literary history and the multicultural situation in medieval Iberia, except that Robin of Locksley’s sidekick ‘Azim, portrayed by Morgan Freeman, is repeatedly identifi ed as a Moor. Th is is not the place to address in detail the historicity and uniformly positive representation of that loyal, noble Moor. Suffi ce it to say that he is portrayed as a devout, intelligent and highly educated man equipped with the latest tech- nology and medical acumen—all in opposition to Robin and even more so [160] 316 R. Brann / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 307-318 to the barbaric garrison of Turkish brutes portrayed at the outset of the fi lm in the Jerusalem dungeon. Th e fi lm identifi es the Turks’ practice of Islam with their barbaric behavior: the call to prayer is heard just as a particularly sadistic Turk admonishes his pathetic Christian victim to “have the courage of Allah.” So while the Turks are identifi ed unmistakably as Muslims, they are diff erentiated sharply from the Moor as though the fi lmmakers were heirs to early modern English tradition (Matar). What is interesting about the representation of ‘Azim is its double emphasis on Moor as signifying ‘African’ and ‘Muslim.’ Any specifi cally North African origins, let alone Iberian connections ‘Azim might have, do not come into play at all and are exchanged for a thoroughly African identity. It is the Moor’s racial otherness above all, and secondarily his diff erent religion, which determine his identity for the contemporary audience. Although the characterization of the Muslim is emphatically faultless, an achievement in and of itself in a contemporary American production, ‘Azim’s identity and honor condemn him to live out his life as an exile in racial, religious and cultural isolation. He enjoys neither polity nor community of the sorts that sustain Robin in “this cursed country” with “no sun” (transcriptions mine). Another emblem of our own peculiar variety of Kulturkampf, akin to the interest in and appropriation of Martin Bernal’s Black Athena, is the re-publication of Stanley Lane-Poole’s nineteenth-century classic Th e Story of the Moors in Spain. Reissued by Black Classic Press, with Eduard Char- lemont’s imposing “Th e Moorish Chief” as its cover illustration, the book seems to invert the value structure of El Cid. Th e image of “Th e Moorish Chief” projects power and dignity. It signals, as the new introduction to Lane-Poole’s work avers, that “Civilization was restored to Europe when another group of Africans, the Moors, brought this dark age to an end, mean- while re-civilizing the Christian barbarians of Europe” (Lane-Poole, “Intro- duction” [n.p.]; emphasis mine). Similarly, the essays of the Fall 1991 issue of the Journal of African Civilization, re-printed as Golden Age of the Moor (Van Sertima), are devoted to subjects such as “Race and Origins of the Moors,” “Moorish Contributions to European Civilization” and “Th e Science of the Moors.” One of its papers declares: “these same African (Moorish) conquerors civilized backward Spain and Portugal . . . Art, learning, refi ne- ment and elegance marked the reign of these African conquerors” (Scobie 340; emphasis mine). By the same token, David Lean and Robert Bolt’s Lawrence of Arabia (1962) portrays emir Faisal mounting the historic Arab revolt against the Turks with Machiavellian intelligence and purpose. Yet R. Brann / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 307-318 317 [161]

Faisal laments wistfully that he “long(s) for the vanished gardens of Cór- doba,” as though the “lost garden” of al-Andalus were his own home (transcription mine). In our own time, then, Moor is still so unstable a term that it can accommodate eﬀ orts to reclaim the ﬁ gure of Othello as an African or re-invent him as an Arab or a Turk (Kaul; Ghazoul).

References

Akbari, Suzanne. “Imagining Islam: Th e Role of Images in Medieval Depictions of Mus- lims.” Scripta Mediterranea 19-20 (1998-1999): 9-27. Barbour, Nevill. “Th e Signiﬁ cance of the Word Maurus, with its Derivatives Moro and Moor, and of Other Terms Used by Medieval Writers in Latin to Describe the Inhabit- ants of Muslim Spain.” In Actas IV Congresso do Estudios Árabes e Islámicos. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1971. 253-266. Brett, Michael. Th e Moors: Islam in the West. London: Orbis Publishing, 1980. Burshatin, Israel. “Th e Moor in the Text: Metaphor, Emblem and Silence.” In “Race,” Writing and Diﬀ erence. Ed. Henry Louis Gates. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1986. 117-137. Fletcher, Richard A. Moorish Spain. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1992. García Gómez, Emilio. “Moorish Spain: Th e Golden Age of Córdoba and Granada.” In Islam and the Arab World: Faith, People, Culture. Ed. Bernard Lewis. New York, NY: Knopf/American Heritage, 1976. 225-236. Ghazoul, Ferial J. “Th e Arabization of Othello.” Comparative Literature 50 (1998): 1-31. Hamilton, Rita and Janet H. Perry. Th e Poem of the Cid. Penguin Classics. Harmonsworth: Penguin, 1984. Harvey, L.P. Islamic Spain, 1250 to 1500. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1990. Kaul, Mythili, ed. Othello: New Essays by Black Writers. Washington, DC: Howard Univer- sity Press, 1997. Lane-Poole, Stanley. Th e Story of the Moors in Spain. 1886. Rpt. with a new introduction by John G. Jackson. Baltimore, MD: Black Classic Press, 1990. Linehan, Peter. “Th e Court Historiographer of Francoism?: La leyenda oscura of Ramón Menéndez Pidal.” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies [Glasgow] 73 (1996): 437-450. al-Maqqarī, Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad. Nafh ̣ al-Ṭīb min ghusṇ al-andalus al-ratīb.̣ Ed. Iḥsān ‘Abbās. Beirut: Dār Sādīr,̣ 1968. Matar, Nabil I. Turks, Moors, and Englishmen in the Age of Discovery. New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 1999. Menocal, María Rosa. Th e Arabic Role in Medieval Literary History: A Forgotten Heritage. Middle Ages Series. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1987. Mirrer, Louise. Women, Jews, and Muslims in the Texts of Reconquest Castile. Studies in Medieval and Early Modern Civilization. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1996. O’Callaghan, Joseph F. A History of Medieval Spain. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1975. [162] 318 R. Brann / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 307-318

Scobie, Edward. “Th e Moors and Portugal’s Global Expansion.” In Van Sertima. 331-359. Smith, Colin, Ed. Christians and Moors in Spain. Vol. 1: AD 711-1150. Hispanic Classics. Warminster: Aris and Philips, 1988. Van Liere, Katherine Elliot. “Th e Missionary and the Moorslayer: James the Apostle in Spanish Historiography from Isidore of Seville to Ambrosio de Morales.” Viator 37 (2006): 519-543. Van Sertima, Ivan, Ed. Golden Age of the Moor. Journal of African Civilizations 11 (Fall 1991). New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1993. Watt, W. Montgomery. Muslim-Christian Encounters: Perceptions and Misperceptions. Lon- don/New York, NY: Routledge, 1991. Wolf, Kenneth Baxter. Conquerors and Chroniclers of Early Medieval Spain. Translated Texts for Historians 9. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1990. Medieval Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture Encounters in Confluence and Dialogue Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 brill.nl/me

Christian, Muslim and Jewish Women in Late Medieval Iberia

María Jesús Fuente Universidad Carlos III de Madrid, Getafe (Madrid), Spain e-mail: [email protected]

Abstract Scholars have studied in depth the relations among Christian, Muslim and Jews in Medi- eval Iberia, but they have largely ignored Christian, Muslim and Jewish women. Th is essay focuses on the role of these women in Medieval Iberia. It looks at their activities in the household as well as in the society in general, and especially at relationships between women of the three communities. It analyzes whether these women contributed toward a harmonious society and whether they fostered separatism or integration. It also points out how, as well as taking care of their children and tending to other domestic tasks, these women served as defenders of the cultural identity of their communities, especially in times of persecution. Although excluded from religious activities, Muslim and Jewish women in particular helped maintain the religion and culture of their ancestors.

Keywords Medieval women, women’s roles, intercultural relations

“Th e position of women is often considered as a test by which the civilization of a country or age may be judged,” writes Eileen Power in the opening of Medieval Women (1). She adds that the test is problematic when applied to the Middle Ages, not only because the sources are inadequate but also because “the position of women is one thing in theory, another in legal position, yet another in everyday life” (1). Power’s assertion, problematic in any society, becomes even more diﬃ cult when applied to a multicultural society, such as that of Iberia in the Middle Ages. Th ough women in Iberian medieval society, as in other parts of Europe, were not allowed to hold positions in the political, cultural and economic world, their role was more than just raising children and caring for the

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 [164] 320 M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 family.1 While women did not generally have much infl uence outside the domestic private space and were limited in their public actions, they held power in other arenas. By examining the role of medieval Iberian women, in and outside the household, this essay will analyze how women contributed to society; and whether, in particular, Jewish and Muslim women encouraged separatism or cultural integration (Glick and Pi-Sunyer 147). Th is is an important area of investigation because historians of medieval Iberia have studied mostly the male world. Muslim and Jewish men, though mostly excluded from political positions, were part of the economic system (albeit with diff erent restrictions for Muslims and Jews), and Jews were also part of the cultural arena as lawyers, doctors and translators, for example.2 Such activities provided men an opportunity for cultural change and assimilation. Women, however, were excluded from the political and cultural spheres and played a minor economic role in the society (Herlihy 168-171; Fuente, “Mujer, trabajo y familia” 186-192). Th eir role in the diff usion of culture is understudied and little understood. Inquisition trials of moriscas and judeoconversas are enlightening with regard to the position of minority women in medieval Iberia. Indeed these documents produced after the pogroms of 1391 until the end of the fi f- teenth century and into the sixteenth century reveal a great deal about the role of women in society. However, due to the paucity of documents, it is diffi cult to describe the role of women over a large cultural continuum (García-Arenal 573). Besides Inquisition documents, other available sources include literary texts, marriage contracts, documents of sale, religious rules, sermons, royal laws, fueros or local legislation and legal proceedings in royal or local courts during the fourteenth, fi fteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth centuries in the kingdoms of Castile and Aragón.

1 Recent studies on women in the medieval kingdoms of Iberia and Europe include those by Bardsley; Beattie; and Jewell; as well as El trabajo de las mujeres en la Edad Media Hispana and works by Dillard and Ruiz-Domènec. 2 Th e exclusion of minorities from political rights and oﬃ ces was common in the His- panic kingdoms. Only some Jewish men held high positions in the administration of the ﬁ scal realm. See on the topic the works of Valdeón Baruque; Álvarez Palenzuela; Fernández Conde; and Rábade Obradó. M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 321 [165]

Functions and Customs of Women in the Domestic Space Women’s functions in this sphere mainly had a religious basis for each of the three religions. Th ere were ﬁ xed female roles and established patterns of gender relations. In each religion, women were expected to be passive and submissive and silent in the religious space (Marín 489; Murray 2-5). Th e functions of women were related to their roles as mothers, daughters, sisters, spouses or lovers. Th ey were responsible not only for the running of the home and raising the children, but also for maintaining the rituals, customs and festivities related to birth, marriage and death and religious observances. Most women were principally occupied in the domestic space of the home and, although unsalaried (Carrete Parrondo and Fraile Conde 81), were an important part of the society and economy. Domestic slaves, most of them Muslim, also worked in the house unpaid, as well as satisﬁ ed the sexual appetites of their owners (Blumenthal 21; Franco Silva 293). Of those women paid for their labor, one of the most common jobs was that of criada, or ‘housekeeper.’ Other work done from the home included weaving, trading and money lending. Outside their own homes, women worked as parteras, or ‘midwives,’ and nodrizas, or ‘nursemaids.’ Th ey also worked as sheep herders, common laborers and prostitutes. Much less common was the participation of women in the area of culture (librera; endechera, or ‘hired mourner’), medicine (medica or megesa, curandera) and religion (rabina).3 Indeed, many of these occupations were rare for women; they appear in brief and confusing references in the documentation. Th e case of the rabina / rabiça, or ‘female rabbi,’ is especially complicated. Th e word could refer to the wife of a rabbi or a woman who conducted the women’s prayers in the synagogue. As cases in point: Çeti, a rabina of Zaragoza, was probably “charged with the custody of the women’s section of the major synagogue and perhaps the mikveh” (Nirenberg 181); while the rabiça of Buitrago was most likely the wife of Rabi Viejo (Cantera Burgos y Carrete Parrondo 22, 39). Yet, rare or common, all of these professions placed women mainly in a domestic space: in their own homes or in the homes of other women. Th e main function of women as mothers gave them an important responsibility: the education of the young. In Christian, Jewish and Mus- lim communities, women were in charge of teaching the children, especially the girls. From their mothers women learned the rituals and customs

3 See Marín Padilla (“Relación judeoconversa . . . Nacimientos” 283) and Nirenberg. Unless indicated, all translations are mine throughout. [166] 322 M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 of the household. Mothers taught their daughters how to manage the household—the cleaning and cooking, for example. Christian women had to know the days of fasting and the rules against eating certain foods. Jew- ish and Muslim women were in the same situation. Th ey had to know what to eat, how to cook it and when to fast. Th e butchering of animals and preparing meat was diff erent in the three communities. Preparing meats—removing the fat and taking out the landrecilla, or ‘sciatic nerve’—was done by women. Th is is seen in a document that describes how a converso of Ciudad Real, Juan de Teva, was accused of preparing meats in such a way. His lawyer countered the accusation, saying this could not be so, since according to the Law of Moses to take the fat out or remove the landrecilla was a woman’s activity (Cantera, “La limpieza” 76; Beinart, Records 3: 322). Th ere were rituals related to the kneading of bread, though Jewish women probably did not know the meaning of throwing a little piece of dough into the fl ames when kneading, a ceremony called hallas. Th e tradition was part of the commandment that mandated that all the prime dough be given to the rabbi; however, in the hallas ritual it was thrown into the fl ames since there was no rabbi to whom to make the off ering after the destruction of the Second Temple of Jerusalem (Cantera, “El pan” 35). Another example of a Jewish custom kept by women is the cutting of nails. Women testify to seeing their mothers making a hole in the fl oor and putting the cut nails in it, covering them with earth or throwing them into the fl ames. Th ese women were following the Talmudic precept that says: “three things have been said about nails: the one who burns them is pious: the one who buries them is just, and bad is he who throws them away” (Beinart, Conversos 301). Some of the Jewish and Muslim rites required cleanliness. Women had to undergo purifying baths at the time of menstruation and before marriage. Catalina, the wife of Garcia Sanches, made the tebila, or ‘ritual bath,’ upon arriving at menstruation, and she taught her daughter to do it as well (Carrete Parrondo and García Casar 116). Madalena, a morisca, was accused of false conversion when she was discovered bathing (Perry, Hand- less Maiden 38). Ritual bathing clearly distinguished women of the minorities from Christian women; for the former, it was a ceremony of purifi cation, for the latter it was only allowed or appropriate in the case of women who were ill and needed to be clean (Powers 659). Jewish and Muslim women also had to know, as mentioned above, the rituals of birth, marriage and death and the way of dealing with the reli- M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 323 [167] gious festivities. When pregnant, a Jewish woman knew that the Law of Moses prohibited sleeping with her husband for seven weeks from the day of giving birth, if they had a girl, and thirty days if they had a boy. Th e separation from the husband’s bed on the day after the marriage was also a Jewish custom. At the wedding of Alonso, a tratante (‘dealer’) of Almazán, the tamborino (‘drummer’) and the dulzainero (‘fl ute player’) went the following morning to the house of the newlyweds with the godmother of the bride and a sister-in-law, and the two women took the bride from the bed. Th ey would not return her to the groom for eight days (Simancas Archive legajo 28/73 fol. 1078r). It was a rite that women understood and accepted without question. (Carrete Parrondo 117). Women married young and according to their parents’ wishes and bore many children. Muslim women probably had the most children, though many Jewish women had one child a year (Perry, Handless Maiden 50). Th at Jewish women were proud of being prolifi c is shown in the testimony of a conversa who linked being barren to her conversion to Christianity: “when I was Jewish I delivered a child every year and . . . since I became Christian I could not conceive one” (quoted in Marín Padilla, Relación judeoconversa 38). Th e ceremonies of birth included baptism, fadas and circumcision, depending on the religion. Eight days after the birth of a child, Muslim and Jewish women celebrated a ceremony called hadas or fadas (Beinart, Conversos 302). Reminiscent of a pre-Islamic ceremony called aqiqa, Muslims greeted newborns with rituals according to sunna, wherein the father, who played the main role, said the customary prayers (Abboud- Haggar 21). Th ough Muslim women participated in this ceremony, their role was probably less important than in the Jewish ceremony. Th e Jewish fadas took place in the mother’s bedroom, where young women or other family members gathered; they dressed the child in white and sang, danced and celebrated joyfully (Marín Padilla, “Relación judeoconversa . . . Nacimientos” 286). Most important for boys was circumcision, a ceremony that Jewish mothers could not attend (Baumgarten 63). Finally, household rituals related to death were also a woman’s duty. When a Jewish person died, women threw the water out of the pitchers; washed the corpse with hot water; shaved the hair of the face, armpits and other parts of the body; and bandaged the dead body. Th ey also cut little pieces of cloth and gave them to friends, had their meals on a low table behind a door for seven days (this was called holding cogüerzos), avoided eating meat and consumed mostly fi sh, eggs, olives and the like (Marín [168] 324 M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333

Padilla, “Relación judeoconversa . . . Enfermedades” 287). Muslim women were also in charge of washing and bandaging the body. Muslim men were in charge of the prayers, except when the deceased was a woman, in which case the prayers might be recited by women. Women also played a major role in one of the most important Jewish religious rites, the Sabbath, celebrated in the home, not in the synagogue. Since the destruction of the Second Temple of Jerusalem, the home had become a temple and the family a sacred tabernacle (Kaufman 41). Women were in charge of preparing the adafi na, or adefi na, 4 the day before, light- ing candles Friday night, changing clothes and praying in the house on Saturday. Th ey also knew how to prepare the pan çençeño for the celebration of Passover and how to deal with the requirement to fast on Yom Kippur. Muslim women also participated in Ramadan, though they were barred from fasting during menstruation, pregnancy or while breastfeeding their children. Additionally prayers were conducted by women in the home when practicing Judaism in secret. In such instances women often read the Torah to others, something not generally allowed by the Jewish communities except under exceptional circumstances in diffi cult times. Muslim women also taught the Law of Muhammaḍ to their children (Perry, Handless Maiden 53); the Islamic instruction in mosques and madrasas was transferred to the home when Islam was prohibited publicly. Moriscos accused of practicing Islam stated that they had learned the religion from a mother, grandmother or mother-in-law (Perry, “Between Muslim and Christian Worlds” 193), and similar statements were made by criptojudíos (Melammed 109). Women knew the religious customs appropriate to the household, and evidence suggests that they probably had a good knowledge of the Qurʾān or Torah. Some women owned religious books, and Doña Dueña, a widow of Estella, who died in 1407, had a complete collection of Talmuds, Pen- tateuchs, commentaries of books of the Bible and books of medicine and law, which shows that she was a highly knowledgeable woman.5

4 A stew made with legumes, lamb, onions, among other things, also known as Hammin (from the Hebrew, meaning ‘hot’), was prepared in advance by Jews who wanted a hot meal but could not cook on the Sabbath. Th e Jewish women kept the stew heated by leaving it on a low ﬁ re or by asking a neighbor to heat it. 5 A complete list of properties of Doña Dueña is found in García-Arenal and Leroy 236-239. M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 325 [169]

Documents show that women kept the religious customs and rituals during times of persecution and prohibition. Th e examples above also suggest that the role of women was very traditional. Daily custom and religious tradition are not segregated, but rather intimately connected: so much so, in fact, that there was some confusion between the two. Isabel López, resident of Cogolludo (Guadalajara), was accused of preparing meat according to the Jewish custom. She defended herself on the grounds that “cleaning meat before putting it in the pot was more a matter of sani- tation than a crime or heretical transgression” (Cantera, “La limpieza” 74). Everyday customs distinguished Christians, Muslims and Jews from one another, and though these customs could be dangerous in times of cultural tension, minority groups continued to follow them. Some Muslim women could be distinguished by the color of their skin. Th ey could also be distinguished if they wore the veil in public places. However, some Christian and Jewish women probably also used a veil (García Herrero 181). By keeping the traditions and customs assigned to them by their particular religion, minority women safeguarded the cultural identity of their communities, and when their communities were under threat, they resisted at home. Th e house was the only possible refuge in which to maintain minority culture. As Mary Elizabeth Perry has said: “the Muslim home protected the family, which acted as the core for the umma, or community of believers” (Perry, Handless Maiden 66). Th e same could be said of the Jewish household. Women were drawing and defending the boundaries of their communities, creating a boundary in every home.

Interaction and Functions of Women in the Public World Although women spent most of their time in the home, they had many opportunities to be part of the public sphere: such as taking part in the neighborhood sociability and solidarity, sharing public spaces and communal festivities and associating with and befriending both women and men. Women dealt with other women in the neighborhood independent of their religion. A case in point is Juana la Platera, a silversmith, a Chris- tian from Ariza, who, when she heard of the death of a Muslim man, said: “God forgive him in his law” (Cuenca Diocesan Archive 749/15). When asked why she had said that when nobody could be saved except through the Christian faith, she answered that she had said it because she was in the company of Muslim women who were her friends, whom she did not wish [170] 326 M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 to off end. Another example is Isabel de Cuenca, who, when married, moved to Guadalajara and lived in a courtyard with three or four Jewish families. She had cordial relations with all of them, and the women shared food (Carrete Parrondo and García Casar 179). Clearly friendship between neighbors was important, and even if they did not live nearby, women visited each other frequently. One conversa of Molina de Aragón, Juana Fernández la Brisela, told the Inquisition jury that Jewish women who lived in the castillo de los judíos, or ‘castle of the Jews,’ in the highest part of town, came every Saturday to visit other women who lived in the lower part of town (Cantera, “La limpieza” 50). Interaction among women took place in diff erent settings—in the home, where they gathered together to spin; in the community places where they performed domestic tasks, such as working at the oven, the fountain, the laundry; or in spaces where they gathered outside to relax and enjoy the sunshine (Carrete Parrondo 146). Women also gathered in the bathhouses; however, in small towns the fueros, or ‘local laws,’ appointed diff erent days for the bathing of diff erent communities, which made interaction more diffi cult. By sharing spaces, they had the opportunity not only to talk, but also to learn customs and ideas, as well as new means of performing domestic tasks. Interactions were especially frequent when family members practiced diff erent religions. Since the time of massive conversions of Muslims and Jews to Christianity, many families had some members who converted and others who kept the ancestral religion. New Christians were not allowed to visit their Jewish or Muslims relatives, for if they did, they were suspected of not being good Christians. However, in spite of the prohibition, relationships continued between friends and relatives, even among religiously divided families. For example, some conversos became priests or held positions in the Church, while the rest of the family remained Jewish. Th e abbot of Martylet lived with his Jewish mother, who observed the Sabbath and rested on Saturday; she also had a Jewish daughter and grandchildren (Carrete Parrondo 32). Th ere are cases of other families divided by religion, whose members continued to live together, such as Jewish women who lived with husbands who were tornadizos, or ‘converts to Christianity.’ One example is the wife of García Fernández de la Ysla, of Medinaceli, who continued living with her husband, even when questioned by the Inquisition (Carrete Parrondo 166). Th ere was also the converso Juan de Ayllón, who shared a house with his Jewish mother (Carrete Parrondo and García Casar 135). M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 327 [171]

Contacts are well documented among women who worked, especially as midwifes or nursemaids. All three communities prohibited the use of nursemaids from outside the religious group, but this rule was often ignored. When a mother and father looked for a nursemaid, they were more concerned about the well-being of the child than the religion of the nursemaid. Muslim women were considered the best, as Gracia Ruiz, a conversa, pointed out when she was accused of hiring Jewish and Muslim nursemaids. She said that one of her daughters was very ill, so she decided to replace the Christian nursemaid and hire a Muslim woman, because she was told that if she did so, the girl would recover (Marín Padilla, “Relación judeoconversa . . . Nacimientos” 280). Moreover, many nursemaids did not consider the religion of the child, though many conversas who breastfed Jewish or Muslim children had to justify why they did so, since it was considered a sign of false conversion. María de Ramos confessed to breastfeeding the son of a Jewish man and a Muslim woman for seven weeks, without knowing the parents’ religion, but as soon as she learned of their heritage, she stopped breastfeeding the boy (Carrete Parrondo and García Casar 157). Another example is a woman named Mayor, who nursed a Jewish boy for eight weeks because she needed the money to pay a debt to a Jewish man (Carrete Parrondo and García Casar 59). Family and neighborhood sociability was displayed through diﬀ erent kinds of festivities: religious, familial and, especially, matrimonial. Th ough communities were forbidden from joining in one another’s religious celebrations, people routinely ignored the prohibition. Following the model of al-Andalus, which forbade Muslims to participate in Christian festivities (Granja 4), the northern kingdoms prohibited Christians from celebrating the religious festivities of the other two communities. In spite of this, in both al-Andalus and the Christian kingdoms, Muslim, Christian and Jew- ish neighbors joined together on special occasions and sang, danced and ate together without concern for religious diﬀ erences. Weddings, and particularly the parties and activities that followed the ceremony, are good examples of celebrations where the cultures mixed (Carrete Parrondo and García Casar 157). Th e connection between food and religion became increasingly one of the most important cultural and social markers of the minority communities (Masud 90). Th e proximity and importance of food to the domestic space and the close interpersonal relations between neighbors, independent of religion, facilitated the exchange of food. Isabel de Cuenca, mentioned above, when she was living in the corral of Guadalajara among [172] 328 M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333

Jewish neighbors with whom she was on friendly terms, said that many times they shared food (Carrete Parrondo and García Casar 179). She also reported that a Jewish friend gave her entrails, a food not permitted among Christians. Eating the proscribed foods of other cultures was more likely during festivities; for example, during Passover converso men and women ate pan çençeño with their Jewish friends and their families.6 Solidarity among women and respect for culinary customs were refl ected in diff erent ways. An example is that since Jewish women did not cook on Saturday, they sent their maids to the houses of Christian or Muslim neighbors to heat their food. Th is shows that Christian women not only respected Jewish and Muslim customs but also supported the women’s eff orts to preserve their religious traditions (Carrete Parrondo 40). Relations among these women sometimes brought them together in each other’s places of worship. In 1322, the Council of Valladolid condemned the presence of Jews and Muslims in Christian churches.7 Chris- tians also went to synagogues and mosques, as Aldonza, the wife of the above-mentioned Juan de Romaní, pointed out: “One year that it did not rain I went with the Countess, my lady, and with many other women to the synagogue to see the Torahs, and we laughed a lot about it: and also one night my husband and I and many others went with our lady to the synagogue, because it was Passover . . . and also I went with my lady to the mosque” (Cuenca Diocesan Archive, 749/4). Another woman related that she went to hear a Jew who was preaching in the synagogue, and another said she went to the mosque to see the çela, or ‘prayer,’ of the Muslim faith (Cuenca Diocesan Archive, 749/4 and 794/3). Th ough conversos were not expected to go to the synagogue, they not only went but also visited the mosques, which indicates that the minorities did not always obey the policies of the religious and political authorities. Th e recorded contact among women of diff erent communities might suggest that there was a good deal of integration; however, focusing on the documents, the picture is diff erent. Th ey had close contact but did not learn much from one another: in other words, contact did not lead to assimilation. Jewish women did not lose their identity during the centuries they lived in al-Andalus. Muslim customs did not enter Jewish households,

6 Th ere are many references in the documents cited by Carrete Parrondo and Fraile Conde; Carrete Parrondo and García Casar; Carrete Parrondo. 7 Lourie has studied the example of Hacen de Tauste, a Jewish man who attended the church and who was seen kicking the altar when dancing in the church (151). M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 329 [173] except in trivial ways. Th e same probably happened when they lived in the northern kingdoms of Iberia. For example, sharing meals did not change the way women handled food. Th ey could adopt new foods, as Jews adopted eggplant from al-Andalus and brought it to the Christian kingdoms, but this did not change the way women cooked and prepared the food. Again, as an example, Muslim and Jewish women would not eat fat or cook with it; it was so deeply rooted in their culture and religion that they could not change their customs.8 Similarly from the experience of helping each other in childbirth, all women could learn to pray to the Virgin Mary, but if a Jewish woman did so, she was just copying the customs of her Christian neighbors; she did not believe in the Immaculate Conception or that Mary was a virgin or that the Virgin was the mother of God. On the contrary Jews considered Mary an ensangrentada—that is ‘a woman who menstruated like every other woman’—or even a whore or adulteress who slept with men other than her husband Joseph (Beinart, Records 1: 369; Fuente, Velos y desvelos 25). Pedro Laynes’ wife is a case in point. According to her testimony, when she was Jewish, she believed all the Christian beliefs except that regarding Mary and the Immaculate Conception (Cuenca Diocesan Archive, 749/15). If she prayed to Mary, she did not believe in the power of the Virgin, but rather imitated what she saw Christian women do. Such imitation is the result of contact but not evidence of the inﬂ uence of one religion over another. Another example is the ceremony of the fadas. Jewish women probably copied the Islamic custom during their centuries in al-Andalus, but the meaning of the ceremony was very diﬀ erent. While for Muslims it was an initiation into religion, with the father’s words spoken in the newborn’s ear, for Jews it was merely a joyful celebration with music and food. More- over, even if Christian, Muslim and Jewish women allowed women of other faiths to breastfeed their children, they watched the nursemaid very carefully. Th ey were afraid that the nursemaid might cause physical harm to the children or try to convert them to her religion. Part of the fear stemmed from the belief that milk could transmit virtues and vices. (Marín Padilla, “Relación judeoconversa . . . Nacimientos” 278-280; Baumgarten 136-138).

8 Th ere are many testimonies in the documents of the Inquisition (see Carrete Parrondo and Fraile Conde; Carrete Parrondo and García Casar; Carrete Parrondo). [174] 330 M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333

Overall, then it seems that contacts outside the household did not lead to changes inside the household. Frequent intergroup contact did not guarantee social integration or contribute to assimilation (Katz 56).

Women as Protectors of Cultural Identity If, as the documents seem to show, women tended to resist assimilation, it raises the question of whether they did so deliberately. Th e answer, it appears, is yes. Th eir everyday activities, breaking social rules, and a lack of submission are seen in the cases of many women who did not follow their husbands’ conversion to Christianity or who converted even though their husbands did not. In these and other ways, women were not as submissive as they seemed to be. Th ey were well aware of the consequences of their actions when they resisted assimilation. Th e evidence suggests that women did not act out of fear of male authority from family, religious or political leaders. It is ironic that those women who were banned from the synagogue and mosque became the best defenders of their respective religions, the best allies of the very religious leaders who had ostracized them from the religious ceremonies. Although keeping religious customs—such as the veil in Muslim communities—may be seen as an act of submission in a patriarchal society, for medieval Iberian women it was something diff erent. It meant the possibility of being infl uential and having the honor of being the protectors of cultural identity.9 Th ey remained passive, but passivity was a boundary-maintaining mechanism that closed the home to external infl uences to prevent its contamination. In these ways the women of medieval Iberia reinforce Power’s idea that theory and everyday practice are most often not the same. Contact may promote familiarity in certain socio-cultural arenas, but it does not assure change or exert infl uence. Iberian woman were accepting of other women and their ways, but in the home, they protected their cultural-religious traditions and identity against external forces.

9 Perry has defended the power of moriscas as a consequence of their role of preserving the cultural identity of their communities (Handless Maiden 10). M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 331 [175]

References

Abboud-Haggar, Soha. “Ibn al-Gazari en la literatura aljamiado-morisca a través de los manuscritos J-LII y T-232.” Anaquel de Estudios Árabes 14 (2003): 21-29. Álvarez Palenzuela. Vicente A., ed. Historia de España de la Edad Media. Ariel Historia. Barcelona: Ariel, 2002. Bardsley, Sandy. Women’s Roles in the Middle Ages. Women’s Roles Th rough History. West- port, CT: Greenwood Press, 2007. Baumgarten, Elisheva. Mothers and Children: Jewish Family Life in Medieval Europe. Jews, Christians, and Muslims from the Ancient to the Modern World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. 2004. Beattie, Cordelia. Medieval Single Women: Th e Politics of Social Classifi cation in Late Medie- val England. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Beinart, Haim. Los conversos ante el tribunal de la Inquisición. Colección Aula Hispánica. Barcelona: Riopiedras, 1983. ———. Records of the Trials of the Spanish Inquisition in Ciudad Real. 4 vols. Fontes ad Res Judaicas Spectantes, Publications of the Israel National Academy of Sciences and Humanities, Section of Humanities. Jerusalem: Israel National Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974-1985. Blumenthal, Debra. “Sclaves Molt Fortes, Senyors Invalts: Sex, Lies and Paternity Suits in Fifteenth-Century Spain.” In Women, Texts and Authority in the Early Modern Spanish World. Eds. Marta V. Vicente and Luis R. Corteguera. Women and Gender in the Early Modern World. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003. 17-35. Cantera, Enrique. “La limpieza como signo de diferenciación étnico-religioso: Judaizantes castellanos a fi nes de la Edad Media.” Estudios Mirandese 26 (2006): 43-80. ———. “El pan y el vino en el judaísmo antiguo y medieval.” Espacio, Tiempo y Forma 19 (2006): 13-48. Cantera Burgos, Francisco and Carlos Carrete Parrondo. “La judería de Buitrago.” Sefarad 32.1 (1972): 3-87. Carrete Parrondo, Carlos. El Tribunal de la Inquisición en el Obispado de Soria (1486-1502). Vol. 2 of Fontes Iudaeorum Regni Castellae. Salamanca: Universidad Pontifi cia de Sala- manca; Granada: Universidad de Granada, 1985. ——— and Carolina Fraile Conde. Los judeoconversos de Almazán [1501-1505]: Origen familiar de los Laínez. Vol. 4 of Fontes Iudaeorum Regni Castellae. Salamanca: Univer- sidad Pontifi cia de Salamanca, 1987. ——— and María Fuencisla García Casar. El tribunal de la Inquisición en Sigüenza [1492- 1505]. Vol. 7 of Fontes Iudaeorum Regni Castellae. Salamanca: Universidad Pontifi cia de Salamanca, 1997. Dillard, Heath. Daughters of the Reconquest: Women in Castilian Town Society, 1100-1300. Cambridge Iberian and Latin American Studies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. Fernández Conde, Francisco Javier. La España de los siglos XII al XV: Transformaciones el feudalismo tardío. San Sebastián: Nerea, 2004. Franco Silva, Alfonso. “La mujer esclava en la sociedad andaluza de fi nes del Medievo.” In El trabajo de las mujeres en la Edad Media hispana. Eds. Ángela Muñoz Fernández y [176] 332 M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333

Cristina Segura Graíño. Colección Laya 3. Madrid: Asociación Cultural Al-Mudayna, Instituto de la Mujer, Ministerio de Cultura, 1988. 287-301. Fuente, María Jesús. “Mujer, trabajo y familia en las ciudades castellanas de la baja Edad Media.” En la España medieval 20 (1997): 179-194. ———. Velos y desvelos: Cristianas, musulmanas y judías en la España Medieval. Madrid: Esfera de los Libros, 2006. García-Arenal, Mercedes. “Conversión, integración y exclusión en el Islam.” Al-Qantarạ 13.2 (1992): 571-576. ——— and Béatrice Leroy. Moros y judíos en Navarra en la baja Edad Media. Libros Hipe- rión 76. Madrid: Hiperión, 1984. García Herrero, María del Carmen. “Actividades laborales femeninas en la Baja Edad Media turolense.” Aragón en la Edad Media 19 (2006): 181-200. Glick, Th omas F. and Oriol Pi-Sunyer. “Acculturation as an Explanatory Concept in Span- ish History.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 11.2 (1969): 136-154. Granja, Fernando de la. “Fiestas cristianas en al-Andalus. (Materiales para su estudio). I: Al-Durr al-munazzam de al-Azafi .” Al-Andalus 34.1 (1969): 1-53. Herlihy, David. Opera muliebria: Women and Work in Medieval Europe. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 1990. Jewell, Helen M. Women in Late Medieval and Reformation Europe, 1200-1550. European Culture and Society. New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007. Katz, Jacob. Exclusiveness and Tolerance: Studies in Jewish-Gentile Relations in Medieval and Modern Times. Scripta Judaica 3. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1961. Kaufman, Debra R. Rachel’s Daughters: Newly Orthodox Jewish Women. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1991. Lourie, Elena. “Cultic Dancing and Courtly Love: Jews and Popular Culture in Fourteenth Century Aragón and Valencia.” In Cross Cultural Convergences in the Crusader Period: Essays Presented to Aryeh Grabois on His Sixty-fi fth Birthday. Eds. Michael Goodich, Sophia Menache, Sylvia Schein. New York, NY: Peter Lang, 1995. 151-182. Marín, Manuela. Mujeres en Al-Ándalus. Estudios Onomástico-biográfi cos de Al-Ándalus 11. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científi cas, 2000. Marín Padilla, Encarnación. “Relación judeoconversa durante la segunda mitad del siglo XV en Aragón: Nacimientos, hadas, circuncisiones.” Sefarad 41.2 (1981): 273-300. ———. “Relación judeoconversa durante la segunda mitad del siglo XV en Aragón: Enfermedades y muertes.” Sefarad 43.2 (1983): 251-343. ———. Relación judeoconversa durante la segunda mitad del siglo XV en Aragón: La ley. Madrid: E. Marín Padilla, 1988. Masud, Muhammad Khalid. “Food and the Notion of Purity in the Fatawa Literature.” In La alimentación en las culturas islámicas. Eds. Manuela Marín y David Waines. Edicio- nes Mundo Árabe e Islam, Historia, Economía y Derecho. Madrid: Agencia Española de Cooperación Internacional, 1994. 89-110. Melammed, Renee Levine. “Th e Ultimate Challenge: Safeguarding the Crypto-Judaic Her- itage.” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 53 (1986): 91-109. Murray, Jacqueline. “Th inking about Gender: Th e Diversity of Medieval Perspectives.” In Power of the Weak: Studies on Medieval Women. Eds. Jennifer Carpenter and Sally-Beth MacLean. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1995. 1-26. M. J. Fuente / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 319-333 333 [177]

Nirenberg, David. “A Female Rabbi in 14th-century Zaragoza?” Sefarad 51.1 (1991): 179-181. Perry, Mary Elizabeth. “Between Muslim and Christian Worlds: Moriscas and Identity in Early Modern Spain.” Th e Muslim World 95.2 (2005): 177-198. ———. Th e Handless Maiden: Moriscos and the Politics of Religion in Early Modern Spain. Jews, Christians, and Muslims from the Ancient to the Modern World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005. Power, Eileen Edna. Medieval Women. Ed. M. M. Postan. Cambridge: Cambridge Univer- sity Press, 1975. Powers, James F. “Frontier Municipal Baths and Social Interaction in Th irteenth-Century Spain.” Th e American Historical Review 84.3 (1979): 649-667. Rábade Obradó, Pilar. “Judeovonversos y monarquía: Un problema de opinión pública.” In La Monarquía como conﬂ icto en la corona castellano-leonesa (c. 1230-1504). Ed. José Manuel Nieto Soria. Sílex Universidad. Madrid: Sílex, 2006. 299-358. Ruiz-Domènec, José Enrique. El despertar de las mujeres: La mirada femenina en la Edad Media. Atalaya. Barcelona: Ediciones Península, 1999. El trabajo de las mujeres en la Edad Media hispana. Eds. Ángela Muñoz Fernández and Cristina Segura. Colección Laya 3. Madrid: Asociación Cultural Al-Mudayna, Insti- tuto de la Mujer, Ministerio de Cultura, 1988. Valdeón Baruque, Julio. El chivo expiatorio: Judíos, revueltas y vida cotidiana en la Edad Media. Alarife 1. Valladolid: Ámbito, 2000. ———, Ed. Cristianos, musulmanes y judíos en la España Medieval: De la aceptación al rechazo. Valladolid: Ámbito; Soria: Fundación Duques de Soria, 2004.

III. CONTACT THROUGH CONFLICT

Medieval Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture Encounters in Confluence and Dialogue Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 brill.nl/me

Th e Ransoming of Prisoners in Medieval North Africa and Andalusia: An Analysis of the Legal Framework

Russell Hopley Department of Near Eastern Studies, Princeton University, Princeton, NJ 08544, USA e-mail: [email protected]

Abstract Th is article examines the practice of fi dāʾ, the seizing and ransoming of non-Muslims in medieval North Africa and Andalusia. A particular focus of the study is to discern how Muslim jurists in the western Islamic lands used formal legal opinions to defi ne the scope of fi dāʾ. Th e opinions of a number of jurists come in for examination, and it emerges that they spoke not with a unifi ed voice, but off ered instead a range of often confl icting views. It is argued that such diversity of opinion regarding the practice of fi dāʾ stems not only from the jurists’ personal temperament, but is strongly tied to the changing fortunes of Islam in the western Mediterranean during the medieval period, most notably as the tide of Chris- tian reconquest in Iberia gained momentum.

Keywords Almoravids, ransoming, Ibn Rushd, Andalusia, Maghreb, ﬁ dāʾ

One of the main points of contact between Muslim and Christian cultures in the medieval Maghreb involved the ransoming of prisoners captured during hostilities between the two frequently warring sides. Th e practice of holding non-Muslim prisoners for ransom, or ﬁ dāʾ in Arabic, comes in for detailed discussion in Islamic legal literature, and there exists a wide range of opinions that the doctors of law have put forth from the time of the early Islamic conquests regarding the licitness of holding non-Muslims for ransom.1 Establishing a legal framework for the ransoming of Christians held by Muslims was a task to which the ʿulamāʾ of the Islamic West gave particular attention. On the one hand, this can be attributed to the

1 Th e most extensive discussions of ﬁ dāʾ by Maghrebi jurists is found in Ahmeḍ al-Wansharīsī’s al-Miyʿār al-muʿrib and Abū ʾl-Qāsim al-Burzulī’s Fatāwā.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 [182] 338 R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 frequency with which Christians were taken prisoner by Muslim armies both in Iberia and along the coast of North Africa, but it also stems from a recognition on the part of the ʿulamāʾ that the practice of holding non- Muslims for ransom as developed in seventh-century Arabia required considerable re-working to meet the unique circumstances of the Islamic West some fi ve centuries later. In the process of discussing the practice of fi dāʾ in this new context, Muslim jurists left behind a considerable body of literature containing an extensive and nuanced treatment of the topic, one that has thus far largely escaped the notice of contemporary scholarship.2 Th is essay will focus primarily on the Cordoban jurist Abū ʾl-Walīd b. Rushd (d. 1126), grandfather of the eminent Muslim philosopher Aver- roes, and one of the most prominent jurists of the Almoravid period to write on the status and licit treatment of Christians held for ransom by Muslims in the lands of the Islamic West. Ibn Rushd was appointed high judge of Córdoba, or qāḍī al-quḍāt, during the period of Almoravid rule in the Maghreb (1070-1147).3 During his tenure in this infl uential post, he bore witness to a signifi cant change in the military posture the Almoravids adopted toward the Christian kingdoms of the western Mediterranean, most notably toward the expansive kingdom of Castile in northern Iberia, from the period of off ensive jihād carried out by the Almoravid emir Yūsuf b. Tāshufīn (d. 1106) to the rearguard defensive actions undertaken by his son ʿAlī b. Yūsuf (d. 1143). During the latter’s rule, many Christians, both captive combatants and non-Muslim dhimmī populations living under Islamic rule, increasingly the object of suspicion, found themselves deported from Andalusia to North Africa, primarily to the regions of Meknes and Marrakesh, to await either enslavement or ransoming. During this crucial period in the history of Islam in the western Mediterranean, Ibn Rushd issued a series of advisory legal opinions, or fatāwā, to the Almoravid lead- ership regarding the status of Christians, both combatants and non-combatants, taken prisoner by Muslims, and the doctrinal basis for holding non-Muslims for ransom. His voice carried considerable weight on the

2 Brief mention is made of the practice of ransoming non-Muslims in EI 2, s.v. Ḥarb. Th e article contributes little in the way of substantive analysis, noting only that wealthy non- Muslim captives were prized for the considerable ransom they could command. 3 A full biography of this important Andalusian jurist can be found in Lagardère (“Abū ʾl-Walīd b. Rushd”). Th e Banū Rushd, a Cordoban house whose roots are thought to be in Saragossa, produced several important jurists, among them Averroes, grandson of Ibn Rushd. Th eir status as “outsiders” in Córdoba may explain to some degree the hostility they encountered at the hands of their rivals in Córdoba, most notably the Banū Ḥamdīn. R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 339 [183] issue of ransoming Christian hostages, and the extensive legal literature from this period devoted to the practice of ﬁ dāʾ bears the unmistakable imprint of his thinking on the topic. In one particularly noteworthy incident (Wansharīsī 9: 598-599), Ibn Rushd was petitioned by the Almoravid governor of Córdoba, Abū al-Ṭāhir Tamīm b. Yūsuf b. Tāshufīn, brother of the reigning Almoravid emir ʿAlī b. Yūsuf, to provide guidance concerning a group of Christian merchants who had traveled to Córdoba from Toledo to sell their wares. Th e Muslims of Córdoba claim to have recognized their personal possessions among the goods being sold by the Christian merchants, and it emerges further that the goods were seized by Christian raiding parties, or sarīya, who not only absconded with Muslim personal possessions, but also abducted a number of Muslims, now being held captive in Toledo. According to the Muslims who have brought the claim to the Almoravid governor, these Muslims, members of their families, are now being held in the homes of the Christian merchants who have come to Córdoba. All of these events are said to have occurred during a period of hudna, or ‘truce,’ during which time cross-border hostilities were eﬀ ectively suspended. Th e question as put to Ibn Rushd asks whether it is licit to seize the Christian merchants as hostages, or irtīhān, until the Muslims being held in Toledo are set free in exchange. Implicit in the question posed by the governor Abū al-Ṭāhir Tamīm b. Yūsuf is a query concerning the circumstances under which the deed of safe passage, or amān, that he presumably issued to the Christian merchants could rightfully be revoked. Th e question centers on the sagacity of doing so and the possible consequences that such a move might entail for the safety of Muslim merchants who were almost certainly also taking advantage of this period of truce to conduct business in Christian territory. His own authority as governor therefore was clearly at stake in the issue, and given that the case originated in Córdoba, it clearly bore directly on the Almoravid regime’s claim to legal rule over the Muslims of Andalusia. It is worthwhile to recall that the inhabitants of Córdoba bore the brunt of the initial Almoravid overthrow of the tạ̄ ʾifa states some twenty years earlier.4 Indeed, Córdoba had risen up in rebellion following a ruling by Ibn Rushd that permitted the Almoravid seizure of

4 Both Abū Ḥamīd al-Ghazalī and the Andalusian jurist Abū Bakr al-Ṭurtushị̄ wrote legal opinions arguing for the Almoravid overthrow of the Andalusian tạ̄ ʾifa states, see Lagardère (Le vendredi 11-20). Despite this impressive cachet, the licitness of the Almoravid action remained a point of contention among Maghrebi ʿulamāʾ, particularly as regards the [184] 340 R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354

Muslim property during the unseating of the tạ̄ ʾifa rulers. A second fatwā of Ibn Rushd that might be seen as depriving Cordoban Muslims of their wealth, this time to the benefi t of Christians, would clearly be untenable and would almost certainly call into question the commitment of the Andalusian ʿulamāʾ to safeguard the welfare of the Muslim community. Of greater consequence still, the revocation of the amān and the seizure of the Christian merchants might lead to an unraveling of the truce and a resumption of hostilities between Muslim and Christian armies. Such a result would be devastating at a time when the Almoravids found themselves increasingly able to mount little more than defensive holding operations, the days of off ensive jihād now a thing of the past. It is important to observe here that in the consideration of a jurist like Ibn Rushd, a truce between Muslims and non-Muslims was merely a temporary aff air deemed to last no longer than ten years, following which either the non-Muslim party was to declare its submission to the Muslim armies or the obligation of jihād was once again to be implemented (see EI 2 s.v. Ḥarb). Further, the leader of the Muslim community could, in the opinion of the ʿulamāʾ, only declare a truce if it was known that the soldiers in the Muslim armies num- bered less than half of those in the non-Muslim force. Truce was meant to be a period of rest, refi tting and additional recruitment to the Muslim ranks until such point that an off ensive posture could once again be assumed and jihād successfully pursued. A truce in this circumstance seemed to be an unmistakable sign of Almoravid weakness. ʿAlī b. Yūsuf was fi ghting a two-front campaign at this point, something which his father Yūsuf, a more gifted military mind, had been careful to avoid. Th e mahdī Ibn Tūmart was becoming increasingly bold in his probing raids around Marrakesh, all the while rallying increasing numbers of Hargha and Hintata Berbers to his messianic call.5 Th e prospect that the Almoravids might fi ll their already depleted ranks in Andalusia were thus quite dim, and the move to seize the Christian merchants from Toledo and to hold them for ransom clearly was an issue fraught with risk, an early example of seizure of wealth and the punishment meted out to the former tāị ʾfa rulers, most of whom were spared death and sent into captivity in Aghmāt, north west of Marrakesh. 5 For an account of Ibn Tūmart’s early activity in North Africa, see Ferhat. Messianism in an Islamic context is treated in Brunschvig. It is worthwhile noting that the compilations of Wansharīsī and Burzulī may plausibly be viewed as attempts to recover an orthodox legal tradition that had been considerably weakened during the Almohad period of rule. R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 341 [185] brinksmanship that, if handled recklessly, could very well imperil Islam in the Maghreb. Ibn Rushd was certainly well aware of the tight corner into which Maghrebi Islam had been backed, to the point that he annulled in an earlier fatwā the duty of hajj̣ for Muslims living in Andalusia, substitut- ing in its place the obligation of jihād. His rule eff ectively countered the risk that able-bodied Muslim men might avoid military service by seeking haven in the far quarters of Mecca. Further, ʿAlī b. Yūsuf had summoned Ibn Rushd to Marrakesh to report on the loyalty of Andalusian dhimmīs in this troubled time and to advise him on the confi guration of Marrakesh’s walls best suited to ward off the mahdī ’s incursions. Th e incident reveals the extent to which the jurists of Andalusia, those of Córdoba in particular, were able to bring their infl uence to bear on aff airs throughout the Maghreb during the Almoravid period. It likewise sheds light on the degree to which the Almoravids sought the close consultation of the ʿulamāʾ on issues outside the traditional purview of the judiciary. Ibn Rushd and his fellow ʿulamāʾ had indeed become the point men called upon to solve the many ills of the Almoravid state. Th e response that Ibn Rushd crafted in his fatwā regarding the seized Christian merchants took into account many of these considerations. He must have felt some disquiet over the motivation of the Muslims who had initially brought the complaint to the Almoravid governor. Had they in fact recognized their missing personal property among the wares of the Christian merchants, or were the merchants in actuality a party come to negotiate privately with the family members of the Muslims being held captive in Toledo? Or had the negotiations simply come to an impasse: one side refusing to accede to the demands of the other, the Muslims now deciding to up the ante by seizing the Christians, going public with the case and making an appeal to higher authority? Ibn Rushd’s fatwā, little more than a paragraph in length, centers on the circumstances in which the Christian merchants entered Islamic territory. If the Christians came to Córdoba following the raiding party’s earlier incursions and seizure of Muslim property and persons, then the pact that allowed the merchants entry into Muslim territory, or the amān, is to be considered void since it was initially granted on condition that no raids be conducted by either side during the period of truce (see EI 2 s.v. Amān). Th e merchants’ possessions may therefore be seized and the merchants themselves kept hostage until the Muslims held in Toledo are returned to their families in Córdoba. If the Muslims are returned, the truce will [186] 342 R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 remain in eff ect. If, however, the Christians refuse to repatriate the Mus- lims, they have eff ectively voided the terms of the pact that allowed the merchants to travel and to conduct business in Muslim lands. Th e truce is thus nullifi ed and a state of war shall return. In this second case, the Chris- tian merchants are no longer considered hostages, but rather designated prisoners, or asārā, and their wealth declared booty to be divided as the spoil of war.6 Further, those who recognize their possessions among the merchants’ wares may rightfully reclaim them. It is apparent that Ibn Rushd’s chief concern in this fatwā is to see the truce between Christian and Muslim maintained. According to the tenants of legal orthodoxy, the raids conducted by the Christians should have rendered the truce void, bringing renewed hostility in their wake. In the opinion formulated by Ibn Rushd, however, the question of the seized merchants becomes, paradoxically, a way to avoid the resumption of confl ict; and the safe return of the Muslims held in Toledo comes to represent a means for the Christians to make amends for their earlier violation of the truce. Th e resolution of one thorny issue thus allows for an earlier grievance to be forgotten. Consideration for the welfare of the Muslim community must of course have been foremost in Ibn Rushd’s mind as he formulated his response. He is willing to overlook the earlier truce violations committed by the Christian raiders, deferring the armed response that orthodoxy would demand in order to avoid a renewal of confl ict, a circumstance that would very likely end poorly for the Almoravid armies. Th e fact that the Christian raiding parties were able to mount forays into Muslim territory with seeming impunity was itself a sign of Muslim weakness, an inability to secure the border areas of the dār al-islām, and a particularly poor refl ection on the Almoravids as the standard bearers of Islam in the Islamic West. Th e Almoravids, it should be remembered, overthrew the Andalu- sian tạ̄ ʾifa kingdoms precisely because they had failed to secure the march regions against infi del incursion. Th e issue of the seized merchants presents an interesting case of legal orthodoxy in tension with public welfare: the former dictating that the truce be considered void in the face of repeated Christian violations of Muslim territory, the latter taking into account the weakened position of the Muslim armies in Andalusia. Ibn Rushd must have been aware of the

6 Islamic law maintains very precise regulations regarding the division of war booty. See EI 2 s.v. Ghanīma. R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 343 [187] need for the Almoravids to maintain sizeable forces in both Iberia and Africa, the one detracting from the size and strength of the other. Ibn Rushd also knew that Muslim merchants in Christian territory would doubtless suff er harm from an opinion that adhered too closely to the dic- tates of orthodoxy. It may plausibly be suggested that he formulated his response to the Almoravid governor with these latter circumstances foremost in his mind. However, Ibn Rushd was aware that his fatwā could cede only so much ground to non-Muslims at the expense of Muslims before it lost its force, and the second half of his response refl ects this understanding. A refusal on the part of the Christians to return the Muslims held in Toledo would go against the Islamic ideal that dealings between Muslims and non-Muslims must always favor the former, a position strongly articulated in the pact of ʿUmar; a return to armed confrontation would then be the most effi cacious means to right this imbalance.7 However, in light of the considerations outlined above, it seems plausible that Ibn Rushd deemed armed reprisal to be the option of last resort, and it is likely that the ahl al-ḥall wa ʾl-ʿaqd (Tyan 1: 172-175), or ‘those with the power to loosen and bind’ (i.e., the leading voices of the community charged with maintaining its coherence and integrity) would have concurred.8 Th e well-known Maghrebi faqīh and jurist of the Almoravid period, al- Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ al-Yaḥsūbī al-Sabtī, a North African from Ceuta who received his early legal training at the hand of Ibn Rushd in Córdoba, was petitioned to provide a fatwā on the status of property abandoned by Chris- tians, or nasārạ̄ , following their forcible deportation by the Almoravid emir and presumed resettlement in the regions surrounding Marrakesh and Meknes.9 While the text of the petition does not provide detail concerning

7 Th e fullest discussion of this document is found in Tyan (1: 154-189). 8 See also Gardet (123). It may be safely assumed that ‘those who loosen and bind’ were comprised of a signifi cant number of ʿulamāʾ. 9 A considerable amount has been written on this eminent faqīh and jurist of the Islamic West; see EI 2 for complete bibliography. North Africa produced a number of gifted jurists. During the Almoravid period the two most prominent were al-Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ in the west of the Maghreb and al-Imām al-Māzarī in the east (i.e. Mahdiya). Th e name of the former indicates a Yemenite origin, a point of prestige in the Islamic West, whereas the name of the latter indicates a Sicilian origin. ʿIyāḍ has been the object of considerable scholarly attention over the last fi fty years, whereas al-Mazārī has by comparison been neglected. Th e city of Qayrawān seems to have been eclipsed fairly early as a destination of study for aspiring Maghrebi jurists; Córdoba attracted the largest number of students, with Alexandria and Baghdad a distant second and third. Ibn Rushd was the main point of attraction for study in Córdoba, while Ṭūrtushị̄ drew a number of North African students to Alexandria. A [188] 344 R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 the provenance of these Christian communities, it is safe to presume that they dwelt in the vicinity of the march areas, either in the northern tracts of Andalusia or in the coastal zones of the eastern Maghreb, i.e. Ifrīqīya, which fell frequent prey during this period to Norman raiding parties sailing from Sicily. Th e fatwā informs us that the churches were converted to mosques following the deportation of the Christians, an action that ʿIyāḍ fi nds commendable since non-Muslim places of worship are, in his opinion, bi-la ḥurma: that is, without sanctity and thus susceptible to confi scation. Th e judgment is questionable; Christians and Jews living under Islamic rule are of course free to maintain places of worship and practice their faith, provided they do so in a humble manner, pay the jizya, publicly proclaim the superiority of Islam and observe any other terms of their covenant with Muslims. ʿIyāḍ tacitly recognizes the problematical nature of his response by inquiring whether the land from which the Christians were deported was brought into the fold of Islam either sulḥ ̣an, ‘by truce,’ or ʿunwatan, ‘by force.’ If the latter, then the land may be legally seized by Muslims and any wealth accruing from it may be licitly placed in the public treasury to be used for the welfare and maintenance of the Muslim community. Th e other possibility, namely that of the land having passed into Muslim control peaceably by means of truce, is eff ectively dismissed by ʿIyāḍ, who notes simply that the majority of territory under Islamic rule in the West was taken by force of arms, an interesting admission in and of itself, and that the act of erecting a mosque where a church had once stood eff ectively “replaces the slogan of unbelief and error with that of faith and submission to God” (ʿIyāḍ ibn Mūsa 205; translation mine). Th is fi nal sentiment is almost impervious to argument, and a jurist who attempted to contend the point would undoubtedly fi nd his bona fi des very quickly called into question. Th ere are a number of important points to be gathered from this brief exchange between qādị̄ and petitioner. Th e text sheds light on the vexing question of the disappearance of indigenous Christian communities from the medieval Maghreb, a process which dates from the period of the early Islamic conquests, but which gathered momentum signally under the Almoravids and reached its conclusion during the rule of the successor

native of Tortossa, Ṭūrtushī’ṣ reasons for leaving Andalusia and taking up residence in Alexandria have never been fully explained. Th e text of the fatwā appears in ʿIyāḍ b. Mūsa (204-205). R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 345 [189]

Almohads.10 Th e fatwā authored by al-Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ in this instance provides evidence for the doctrinal basis under which these communities were forcibly removed and presumably extinguished during the period of Berber rule in North Africa and Andalusia. Juxtaposing the fatāwā of Ibn Rushd and al-Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ allows us to savor the personalities of these two eminent Maghrebi jurists, the former notably restrained in his responsa, the latter often severe, bordering on intolerant in his opinions.11 In light of the cases encountered above, one might plausibly suggest that non-Muslim communities, Christians in particular, were as a matter of policy moved away from the march areas, vulnerable regions in which the temptation of collusion or espionage against Muslims might prove especially damaging.12 Th e visit made by Ibn Rushd to Marrakesh alluded to earlier presumably involved discussions with the Almoravid emir concerning the arrangements, logistics and legal grounds for forcibly deporting non-Muslims from the upper march regions to the North African hinterland. Moving entire communities of Christians into the highly orthodox milieu of Marrakesh was a venture fraught with risk, particularly at a time when the Christian armies of Castile were making considerable headway in their oﬀ ensive against the Muslim lands around Toledo, leaving considerable devastation and plundering of Muslim property and person in their wake. Th e specter of violent reprisal against the vulnerable Christians recently deported to the Almoravid capital city was a very real possibility. However, if, as is well known, the deported Christians were put to work erecting the defensive walls around Marrakesh and Meknes, they could be seen as contributing to the safeguarding of the Muslim community, thereby

10 Th e history of the ahl al-dhimma in North Africa has been widely commented upon, however mostly with reference to the many Jewish communities found throughout the western Mediterranean area. Comparatively little attention has been given to the history and eventual demise of Christianity in North Africa. One of the few discussions can be found in Talbi. 11 Al-Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ was in fact dismissed by the Almoravid emir ʿAlī b. Yūsuf from the offi ce of qāḍī in Granada for a period of fi fteen years, ostensibly for having been overly severe in his rulings. However, many of his juridical pronouncements were critical of Almoravid administrative policy in Andalusia, and the resulting offi cial disfavor in which he found himself should be kept in mind when considering his removal from offi ce. 12 Th e Arabic term is thaghr, ‘gap’ or ‘breach,’ referring to those points at which the dār al-Islām may be penetrated. Th e location of the march areas in the Islamic West are well defi ned, existing primarily on the Iberian Peninsula, but the coastal region of Tunisia and Tripolitania during this period may rightfully be considered a thaghar as well. See EI 2 s.v. Th aghar. [190] 346 R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 defusing the potential for confl ict engendered by this sizeable infl ux of non-Muslims into a highly conservative environment, a move that, if left without legal sanction, had the potential to call the authority of the Almoravid state into question. It is conceivable, further, that Marrakesh was used during this period as something of a holding ground for deported and captured Christians, a point from which they could be safely negotiated, bargained and, ultimately, exchanged for Muslims being held captive by Christians in Iberia or Sicily. Th at entire communities of Christians would be deported and held in this manner expands considerably the scope of fi dāʾ as practiced in the Maghreb, which now encompassed more than mere individuals seized and held for ransom. Th is was clearly a trouble- some development for the judiciary, for most of these communities were considered protected in exchange for their payment of the jizya. Th e vaga- ries of al-Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ’s fatwā provide a clear signal that a decisive, thoroughly persuasive ruling on the practice of holding entire communities for ransom had yet to be articulated. Th e fi fteenth-century Tunisian jurist Abū ’l-Qāsim al-Burzulī cites with approval the opinion of Ibn Rushd concerning the seized Christian merchants.13 He deftly adapts the Cordoban case to his own North African circumstances, observing that the recent Christian seizure of a ship belonging to a certain Ibn Shaqāwa al-Būnī and the massacre of the Muslims on board the vessel following the seizure eff ectively voided the deed of amān that had been concluded between Christian merchants residing in Tunisia and the Ḥafsiḍ emir of Ifrīqīya (Burzulī 5: 213). Burzulī rejects Christian protestations that the incident was little more than an accident; he rules, however, that all Christian merchants present in Muslim territory who obtained a deed of safe passage prior to the massacre need not fear for their personal safety. However, those Christians who requested the amān following the incident are to be treated, as he says, following the manner set forth in Ibn Rushd’s fatwā, namely as non-Muslims residing in Muslim territory

13 Full biographical details of the Tunisian jurist are given in Burzulī (1: 5-45). Burzulī may best be regarded as a compiler of fatāwā of the eastern Maghreb, complementing the work that Wansharīsī undertook for juridical opinions from the western Maghreb. Of the two, Burzulī is more apt to off er his opinion on the issue under discussion, whereas Wansharīsī is content to report the opinions of other jurists, only infrequently off ering his own commentary. However, the manner with which these two Maghrebi jurists chose to edit their compilations remains in need of examination. Further, the compilation of Burzulī is of very recent publication, and represents an invaluable, thus far unexploited, source for the social and legal history of the eastern Maghreb during the medieval period. R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 347 [191] without the protection aff orded by a formal pact of safe passage. Th ey and their wealth therefore may be rightfully seized and held for ransom. Burzulī’s opinion is a noteworthy eff ort to refashion a fatwā that was tai- lored originally to a unique set of Andalusian circumstances and to rework it to a North African milieu. It similarly suggests an eff ort to develop a uniquely Maghrebi ʿamal (see EI 2 s.v. ʿAmal ), a legal practice based on that of the ahl medīna at the time of the Prophet, but considerably modifi ed to fi t the conditions of Islam in North Africa and the western Mediterra- nean.14 Th at the North African jurist Burzulī chose to look to the Cordo- ban faqīh Ibn Rushd in this instance should come as no surprise since Ibn Rushd had devoted a considerable portion of his intellectual eff ort to updating and adapting the Prophet’s legal practice to the western lands of the Mediterranean. Ijmāʿ, or ‘the consensus of the community of scholars,’ is similarly an important consideration here, and Burzulī’s citation of Ibn Rushd may plausbily be viewed as one jurist’s attempt to come to an understanding of the range of opinions that have been formulated on a particular issue, extending, if possible, back to the time of the Prophet himself. Th e underlying principle of such a process, of course, is that the pattern established by the Prophet, or the sunna, should be maintained at all times and in all places.15 In this instance, the Muslim response to a Christian massacre at sea is remarkably restrained: there being no mention of armed reprisal in Burzulī’s fatwā. Bloodshed committed by the one party is met only with ransoming and seizure of wealth by the other, with the stipulation that some Chris- tians residing in Ifrīqīya be considered exempt from being taken hostage. Th is temperance reveals Burzulī as a jurist almost entirely impervious to the whimsical demands of vengeance, and the seizure and ransoming of Christians off ers a peaceable alternative to bloodshed, one that would mol- lify the anger of the Muslim community without unleashing unchecked violence that in these circumstances would undoubtedly work to the detri- ment of larger Muslim interests. Th is quelling of anger, then, becomes one of the central functions of fi dāʾ as articulated in the fatwā of Burzulī, and

14 Th e French legal historian Louis Milliot conducted extensive research into the Moroc- can concept of ʿamal during the fi rst half of the twentieth century, primarily as developed among the jurists of Fez (Milliot 1: 10-35). 15 Sunna refers to the pattern or model established by the Qurʾān, the traditions of the Prophet and those of his companions. Only in the fi nal instance should a source other than these, i.e. human reason, be referred to when determining correct behavior. [192] 348 R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 it provides a compelling example of the attitude of restraint that prevailed among Muslim jurists of this period. Like Ibn Rushd, Burzulī shows himself to be indebted to legal categories, and it is clear that he hopes to sub- sume the visceral reaction to the massacre to these impersonal categories. Indeed for both jurists, the emphasis of the fatwā is on determining the status of the truce as it existed at the time of the incident: whether or not non-Muslims had obtained the deed of amān, when they had done so and the binding force, if any, of that document in the case. Finally, whether or not non-Muslim merchants had paid the jizya and the extent to which that protects them from harm and seizure of their wealth while residing among Muslims in North Africa is a principle concern in these cases. Fidāʾ and the seizure of property is recommended only after these categories have been exhaustively queried and determined. For example, in another fatwā Ibn Rushd asserts that a Muslim may not seize from a Christian merchant from Toledo a mare that he recognizes as his own, and he is adamant that the circumstances in which the mare was taken must fi rst be determined. If the mare was taken from the Muslim during a period of truce, then he may reclaim it. If not, then it must remain in the possession of the Chris- tian merchant, and this is precisely because the Christian has paid the jizya, protecting him from harm or seizure of his possessions. Consider- ations of this nature hold equally true in the case of the seized Christian merchants from Toledo. Th e Muslims of Córdoba, Ibn Rushd says, may only seize possessions from the merchants that are no greater in value than the goods originally stolen by the Christian raiding parties. Seizing Christians for ransom is, in this instance as in many others, rejected if they have adhered to the terms of their pact and paid the jizya. Th is stance as argued by Burzulī may be seen as a tacit rebuke of al-Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ advocating the wholesale deportation of Christians from Andalusia and seizure of their property with little regard for the status of their pact with the Muslim emir under whom they lived. Burzulī’s leniency may simply refl ect a very real shift in the balance of power in the western Mediter- ranean. Muslims by his time simply were no longer in a position to engage in any eviction and deporting of non-Muslims, rather they themselves were now on the receiving end of such action. Th e episode involving the plundered Muslim ship and the ensuing massacre may very well serve to illustrate the extent to which the Christian menace to the dār al-Islām had grown over the three centuries separating Ibn Rushd from Burzulī. Chris- tian raiding vessels now felt confi dent enough to harass and interdict Mus- lim shipping off the coasts of the eastern Maghreb, with the judiciary R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 349 [193] increasingly placed in the delicate position of sanctioning the rather tepid Muslim response. It is interesting to observe that Burzulī, a jurist in the employ of the Ḥafsiḍ emirs of Ifrīqīya, eastern heirs to the Almohad mantle, looks back with admiration on Ibn Rushd, one of the principle qādī’̣ s of the Almoravid state, who were in fact bitter opponents of the Almohads.16 Th us an opinion originally issued to secure the interests of the Almoravids is revived three centuries later in the service, paradoxically, of a regime descended from those who brought the Almoravids to their knees. A second incident from the eastern region of the Maghreb (Wansharīsī 8: 302-303), this time reported by the Ifrīqīyan jurist Ibn ʿUmrān, concerns a Muslim ship raided by Christians while traveling from Alexandria to Mahdīya, a port city of eastern Tunisia with strong commercial ties to Alexandria. Th e attack is said to have taken place near the coast of Jabal Barqa, in the vicinity of Benghazi, and to have resulted in the plunder of the ship’s cargo and the death of a number of Muslims aboard the ship. Th e surviving Muslims were taken into Christian territory and held for a period of time. Th e fatwā at this point relates only that the Muslims were later found by a second Muslim vessel in the waters around Sicily, retrieved and taken back to their home territory of Mahdiya. Precisely how the erst- while captives obtained their freedom from their Christian captors is not made clear; however, the question as put to Ibn ‘Umrān sheds some light, perhaps unwittingly, on how the Muslims won release from Christian captivity. Th e crew of the second Muslim ship has asked the Tunisian jurist to determine whether they can expect to be repaid for having saved the captive Muslims, whose testimony should be considered valid in the incident, and whether the case should be heard in Mahdīya or elsewhere, presumably Alexandria or perhaps the Levantine coast of Andalusia. Th e fact that the crew of the second ship is seeking compensation, or thawāb, for having rescued the captive Muslims suggests that they paid the Christian raiders some form of wealth, either money or cargo, to secure the release of their captive co-religionists. Th is seems a far more likely sequence of events than the Muslims having been seized, taken to Christian territory and then

16 See EI 2 s.v. Ḥafsidṣ . Descendants of Abu Ḥafṣ al-Hintatī, a Berber from the Jebel Daran and close companion of Ibn Tūmart, the Ḥafsidṣ ruled the eastern portion of the Maghreb, Ifrīqīya, from the twelfth through fourteenth centuries, inheriting the caliphal titles used by the earlier Almohads. [194] 350 R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 inexplicably found by a second Muslim ship sailing in the vicinity of Sicily. Th e petition for the fatwā asks also about the merits of the testimony given in the case, suggesting that some measure of discrepancy existed between the version of events related by the crew and passengers of the two vessels. Th e response as handed down by Ibn ‘Umrān states unambiguously that the crew of the second ship may not seek recompense for having retrieved and delivered the captive Muslims. Such an action, he argues, is obligatory for a Muslim and not deserving of material reward. Interestingly, Ibn ʿUmrān places the rescue of the captives in the larger context of jihād, the purpose of which, he states, is “to raise high the word of God, to protect the lands where Islam holds sway, and to bring low the word of unbelief and the enemy,” none of which is to be undertaken with material gain in mind, but only with the fi nest of intentions, or ḥusn al-niyya (Wansharīsī 8: 303; translation mine). Th e opinion formulated by Ibn ʿUmran is bolstered by several ḥadīths, the thrust of which is to emphasize jihād as a collective obligation, or fard ̣ kifāyya, which God will reward handsomely in the next life. He states unequivocally that “whosoever has brought about the deliv- erance of his brother with his own hand shall receive the fullest recompense from God, al-jazāʾ al-awfā, and he should be content with what God provides” (Wansharīsī 8: 303; translation mine).17 Ibn ʿUmrān is likewise adamant that the case be heard in Ifrīqīya, the destination of the vessel. In taking this stance he provides a fi ne example of regional and ethnic solidarities infl uencing juridical practice in the lands of the Islamic West. Had the case been heard in another region, that of the crew who rescued the captive Muslims for example, there is a considerable likelihood that the qāḍī of that region would have been more favorably disposed to the rescuers’ demands. Ibn ‘Umrān’s ruling, unambiguously in favor of the freed Muslims not being liable for the expenses incurred during their rescue, seems formulated with the express purpose of currying the favor of his home constituency, a number of whom were among those taken captive during the journey from Alexandria. Th is is a particularly telling illustration of where a jurist’s deepest loyalties lie when it comes to protecting the welfare of the community. Faced with the choice of ruling in favor of those from his home district or others who, although they have actively confronted the infi del, may be of diff erent ethnic stock and not Arabo-Berber, Ibn ʿUmrān comes down squarely on the side of his ethnic kinfolk. Th ose who have served in the path of jihād are asked to forego

17 Treatment of the doctrinal basis of jihād in the Almoravid period is found in Messier. R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 351 [195] material reward in this life and to await God’s recompense in the next. Here one can easily imagine the crew of the second ship departing Mah- diya in disappointment. Th e question as put initially to Ibn ‘Umrān appears to have been redacted in parts, most notably in explaining how the Muslims held captive were found by the crew of the second Muslim vessel. Th is reads suspiciously like an attempt to suppress certain aspects of the episode, namely that the crew of the second vessel very likely paid a ransom to the Christians to secure the release of the captive Muslims, an action that casts the Muslim side in a rather unfavorable light. Further, by excising this last point from the petition to Ibn ‘Umrān, the second crew’s demand for recompense appears almost outlandish, and the response of Ibn ‘Umrān that such assistance is expected from Muslims without reward seems a model of evenhandedness. Th ere is, fi nally, a fatwā of Ibn Rushd that relates the incident of a Mus- lim man who has attempted to ransom two men being held prisoner in Christian territory (Wansharīsī 8: 349-350), or dār al-ḥarb, by off ering a Christian house servant, or ghulām nasrānī,̣ in exchange for them. Th e boy is sent for the exchange, and the Christians holding the two Muslims captive come forth at a designated location to inspect the boy in an eff ort to ascertain his health, physical strength and overall worth. However, after a period of two years spent inquiring after and searching for the two Muslims, only one is returned, there being no information provided concerning the second man’s whereabouts or status, whether alive or dead. A question then arises over the value of the Christian house servant in light of only one man returning from captivity. Ibn Rushd replies that it is preferable if another Muslim being held captive can be brought forth and released in place of the man who has disappeared. Failing that, he says, it must be ascertained whether the young Christian was given as a mawhūb, or ‘gift,’ (the term that appears originally in the question as posed by the petitioner) or fi kāk, ‘ransom,’ for the captured Muslims. Th is consideration determines how the Christians should respond. Following this, the value of the Christian boy must be determined, and since only one Muslim was returned instead of two, the ransoming should be considered to have occurred at only half the value of the boy. Unfortunately we never learn the outcome of this transaction, but the case does provide a fascinating glimpse into the actual mechanics of fi dāʾ, wholly absent from the fatwā of Ibn ‘Umrān. It off ers details about how the relative value of the exchanged bodies was measured, the place where negotiations occurred and the protracted period of negotiation that ransoming often entailed, in [196] 352 R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 this case requiring more than two years before an acceptable conclusion was reached. In Ibn Rushd’s al-Bayān waʾl-taḥsīḷ (Ibn Rushd 1: 581-582), a lengthy commentary on the legal treatise of Muḥammad al-ʿUtbī, a Cordoban jurist who predated Ibn Rushd by two and a half centuries, a question is posed to the Medinan jurist Mālik b. Anas concerning who exactly should be responsible for paying ransom for captive Muslims: the family members of the seized individuals or the sultan, drawing from the public treasury, or bayt māl al-muslimīn.18 Th e response avers that if the ransoming bears directly on the interests of the Muslim community, then it is mandatory that the imām take responsibility and assume the expense of fi dāʾ. Th is reply sheds light on a possible further motivation of the Cordoban Mus- lims in approaching the Almoravid governor with their case: namely that they hoped to draw on public funds to ransom their family members in Toledo and the Almoravid governor was uncertain whether this constituted a licit use of public monies. In citing this query put to Mālik and the answer off ered by Saḥnūn, Ibn Rushd is in eff ect reminding his Almoravid patron of his responsibility toward the Muslim community. In the fatwā regarding the seized Christian merchants there is, I would suggest, an attempt to refashion the often private practice of fi dāʾ into an activity conducted under the supervision of the Almoravid state. Th is, perhaps more than anything else, lends Ibn Rushd’s brief fatwā its considerable importance. Th e above discussion has attempted to suggest that the jurists of the Islamic West endeavored to fashion their own regional juridical praxis, or ʿamal. Th e legal precedent established by the Prophet at Medina was fi rst brought to the Islamic West by Saḥnūn in Qayrawān, refashioned in Cór- doba by Ibn Rushd and then returned to Qayrawān by jurists such as

18 Mālik was an early Muslim jurist and Imām of the school of jurisprudence that bears his name, found predominantly in North and West Africa; see EI 2 s.v. Mālik b. Anas. Of the four schools of Islamic jurisprudence, the Māliki madhhab is commonly considered to be the most amenable to unorthodox customary law. Th is may explain in part its wide dis- semination in North Africa, where Berber customary law has traditionally been and remains infl uential in regulating tribal aff airs. Th e traditional division of North Africa into bilād al-makhzen and bilād al-siba is little more than shorthand for indicating those regions where the orthodox sharīʿa holds sway, primarily urban, and those where Berber customary law remains in eff ect, primarily rural. Th e last fi fty years have seen a rapid retreat of the lands governed by Berber customary law. R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354 353 [197]

Burzulī and Ibn ‘Umrān.19 In cases involving fi dāʾ, it is possible to observe fi rst hand how these jurists, often separated by centuries and thousands of miles, were not only keenly aware of one another and of the range of positions that had been articulated on a particular issue over the course of generations, but were likewise insistent to maintain, where possible, a chain of rulings extending back to the Prophet himself. In this manner, the jurists of the Maghreb were convinced that they were the true heirs of Prophetic tradition, maintaining a sunna that had been abandoned in other parts of the umma. It is among the ʿulamāʾ of the Islamic West, then, that we witness the stirrings of a region eager to show itself intellectually at the forefront of the law, not marginalized as its geographical position might suggest: a region confi dent, assertive and able to hold its own against the best that the eastern heartlands could off er. Indeed, one might posit the twelfth century as the turning point when eastern eyes begin to look west for guidance on many fronts—literary, cultural, intellectual and legal. It is this almost wholly novel reading of Maghrebi history that promises to open new vistas of research into this vital region of the Islamic world.

References

Brunschvig, Robert. “Sur la doctrine du Mahdī Ibn Tūmart.” Arabica 2 (1955): 137-149. Burzulī, Abū al-Qāsim ibn Aḥmad. Fatāwā al-Burzulī: jāmiʿ masāʾil al-aḥkām li-mā nazala min al-qaḍāyā bi-al-muftīn wa-al-ḥukkām. A-Ṭabʿah 1. 7 vols. Ed. Muḥammad al- Ḥabīb Hīlah. Beirut: Dār al-Gharb al-Islāmī, 2002. [EI 2] Th e Encyclopedia of Islam. Ed. H.A.R. Gibb, et al. 12 vols. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1986-2004. Ferhat, Halima. “Faux prophètes et mahdīs dans le Maroc medieval.” Hespéris-Tamuda 26 (1988): 5-23. Gardet, Louis. La cité musulmane: Vie sociale et politique. Études Musulmanes 1. Paris: J. Vrin, 1954. Ibn Rushd, Muḥammad ibn Aḥmad. Al-Bayān waʾl-taḥsīḷ waʾl-sharḥ waʾl-taʿlīl fī masāʾil al-mustakhraja. 20 vols. Ed. Muḥammad Ḥajjī. Beirut: Dār al-Gharb al-Islāmī, 1984. ʿIyāḍ ibn Mūsa. Madhāhib al-Ḥukkam fī nawāzil al-aḥkãm. Ed. Muḥammad bin Sharīfa. Al-Ṭabʿah 2. Beirut: Dār al-Gharb al-Islāmī, 1997.

19 Saḥnūn was among the earliest students of the Mālikī school of jurisprudence in North Africa. He studied under Ibn al-Qāsim, who was a student of Mālik himself while the latter was in Medina. Saḥnūn played an important role in committing Ibn al-Qāsim’s encyclopedic knowledge of Islamic jurisprudence to paper, producing in the process one of the source texts for Mālikī jurisprudence, the Mudawwana. [198] 354 R. Hopley / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 337-354

Lagardère, Vincent. “Abū ʿl-Walīd b. Rushd, Qāḍī al-Quḍāt de Cordue.” Revue des études islamiques 54 (1986): 203-224. ———. Le vendredi de Zallāqa: 23 de octobre 1086. Collection Histoire et Perspectives Méditerranéennes. Paris: L’Harmattan, 1989. Messier, Ronald A. “Th e Almoravids and Holy War.” In Th e Jihād and Its Times. Eds. Hadia Dajani-Shakeel and Ronald Messier. Michigan Series on the Middle East 4. Ann Arbor, MI: Center for Near Eastern and North African Studies, University of Michi- gan, 1991. 15-29. Milliot, Louis. Receuil de jurisprudence chériﬁ enne: Tribunal du ministre chériﬁ en de la justice et conseil supérieur d’ouléma (Medjlès al-istināf). 3 vols. École Supérieure de Langue Arabe et de Dialectes Berbères de Rabat 3. Paris: Éditions E. Leroux, 1920-1924. Talbi, Mohamed. “Dialogue Islamo-Chrétien.” Cahiers de Tunisie 27 (1979): 280-290. Tyan, Émile. Institutions du droit public musulman. 2 vols. Paris: Siney, 1954-1957. Wansharīsī, Aḥmad ibn Yaḥyā. Al-Miʿyār al-muʿrib wa-al-jāmiʿ al-mughrib ʿan fatāwā ahl Ifrīqīyah wa-al-Andalus wa-al-Maghrib. 13 vols. Ed. Ḥajjī, Muḥammad. Al-Rabāt: Wizārat al-Awqāf wa-al-Shuʾūn al-Islāmīyah lil-Mamlakah al-Maghribīyah, Al-Ṭabʿah 1, 1981. Medieval Jewish, Christian and Muslim Culture Encounters in Confluence and Dialogue Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 brill.nl/me

Representing and Remembering al-Andalus: Some Historical Considerations Regarding the End of Time and the Making of Nostalgia

Justin Stearns Department of Religion, Middlebury College, Middlebury, VT 05753, USA

Abstract Th e place that al-Andalus occupies in contemporary popular and academic discourses is characterized by an ill-deﬁ ned but heartfelt nostalgia. Th is essay returns to the historical texts written during and immediately following the Muslim presence in the Iberian Penin- sula in order to elucidate the conceptual place al-Andalus occupied in them. Th ese narratives convey little in the way of nostalgia and frame al-Andalus instead as a place of wonders, jihād and eschatological events. Th is essay concludes with a brief consideration of when the understanding of al-Andalus as a “lost paradise” emerged and how this understanding may now itself be changing.

Keywords Muslim Spain, historiography, nostalgia, al-Andalus

In a recent article by Hisham Aidi, we ﬁ nd the following passage on contemporary nostalgia for al-Andalus:

For many of the minority convert communities and the diaspora Muslim communities, Islamic Spain has emerged as an anchor for their identity. Moorish Spain was a place where Islam was in and of the West, and inhabited a Golden Age before the rise of the genocidal, imperial West, a historical moment that disenchanted Westerners can share with Muslims. Neither Muslim nostalgia for nor Western Orientalist roman- ticism about Andalusia is new, but it is new for diﬀ erent subordinate groups in the West to be yearning for “return” to Moorish Spain’s multiracialism . . . Th at the longing for pre-1492 history is shared by many minorities throughout the West is an indication of their lasting exclusion, and how the stridency of Western nationalism since September 11 has revived memories of century-old trauma. As one African-American activist put it recently, “Th e proﬁ ling and brutalizing of African-Americans didn’t

begin after September 11. It began in 1492.” In a similar spirit, after Moussaoui was arrested in the US and granted the right to represent himself in court, one of his ﬁ rst demands was “the return of Spain to the Moors.” Hisham Aidi (“Let Us Be Moors” 52)1

What kind of place was al-Andalus? In the twenty-fi rst century, due to an undeniable nostalgia for al-Andalus on the part of disparate communities, the question is hard to answer. Muslim minority communities in the West, Islamic militants in the Middle East and elsewhere, Arab and especially Palestinian poets, all long, albeit in very diff erent ways, for al-Andalus as a place and time of cultural and political ascendance. For these groups al-Andalus is remembered as a place where it was safe to be a Muslim and to be proud of one’s cultural and political identity (Aidi, “Let Us Be Moors”; Snir). Simultaneously, some American and European academics have lavished increasing attention on al-Andalus as representing a golden age of tolerance, which in some ill-defi ned fashion off ered—often through literature—a forerunner for a multicultural interfaith humanism.2 Yet, nostalgia, which in some way seeks to recoup a specifi c past and represent it in the present, is notoriously treacherous and in an awkward relationship with history’s ostensible aim of providing an accurate representation of the past.3 It is not surprising, therefore, to note that through their nostalgia these various groups are creating diff erent, incompatible versions of al-Andalus, which fi nd their place alongside the various visions of al-Andalus that generations of historians have off ered their readers. While the historical debates over the signifi cance and identity of al-Andalus have been

1 Th is paper was fi rst presented at the conference Al-Andalus: Cultural Diff usion and Hybridity in Iberia (1000-1600), at the University of Wisconsin-Madison in October of 2007. My sincere thanks go to the organizers of the conference and to the participants, many of whom provided comments that improved this paper substantially. I would also like to thank Michael Nevadomski for help with research on an earlier draft of this paper. Finally, I would like to express my gratitude to the Medieval Encounters’ readers, who were extremely generous with their time and comments. In the following, unless otherwise noted, all translations are mine. 2 Best known here is of course Menocal (Ornament of the World); compare with Lowney’s A Vanished World. Of a diff erent orientation, but also of interest here, is the introduction in Cole (1-20). 3 It is of course arguable that nostalgia is often an inextricable part of much historical writing, and that an evaluation of the past often, if not always, involves the author selecting the material that suits best the argument she wishes to put forward. J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 357 [201] most fi ercely fought in Spain, scholars of all national backgrounds have found themselves engaged in intense discussion on every aspect of the topic, beginning with the origin of the name itself.4 Th e debates and nostalgia recall diff erent periods: the Muslim conquest of al-Andalus, the glory of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III’s caliphate, the social mobility enjoyed by Jews during the period of the tạ̄ ʾifa rulers, the dramatic fall of Granada and the subsequent fate of the moriscos, to name just a few examples. In each instance the actual signifi cance of the term al-Andalus is often unclear: is it a geographic area, part or all of the almost eight centuries when Muslims ruled various regions of the Iberian Peninsula, the interaction between religious communities, or any combination of the above? Th e representation of al-Andalus today, as in the past, is a collaborative enterprise, and the result is unsurprisingly a pastiche of competing views. Th e present essay off ers a rereading of the role of al-Andalus as a concept in the historical writing produced by Muslim scholars living in the Peninsula and later in North Africa: specifi cally, it examines how Muslim historians evaluated the role of al-Andalus in history. In choosing this emphasis, I have been guided by the contemporary nostalgia for al-Andalus, a nostalgia that is always associated with assigning the term a meaning that reaches beyond the description of a geographical region or an historical period to signify something necessarily intangible, such as a way of thinking or a form of being. Th e present analysis is limited in two ways: I have tried to choose examples in which the term al-Andalus is explicitly mentioned, and I have focused largely on historical writings, to the exclusion of geographical, legal and poetic material. Th e drawbacks of this approach should be obvious: in the end I, too, will have merely identifi ed one of the many pertinent faces of al-Andalus. Yet the benefi ts are noteworthy. By looking at the texts’ explicit treatment of the region and their interpretation of the term’s historical signifi cance, it is possible to make several clear observations regarding the concepts and the ways in which pre-modern Muslim writers conceived of “al-Andalus.”

4 Still useful here is Monroe (Islam). A recent insightful and thoughtful analysis of how al-Andalus has been discussed in Spain is found in Aidi (“Th e Interference”). On the origin of the name al-Andalus, see Halm. Distinct in focus but of relevance is López-Baralt (Huel- las del Islam). [202] 358 J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374

Th e Limits of Genre or Th e Reluctance of the Sources to Provide Explicit Answers to our Questions Several scholars have recently made valuable contributions to the understanding of Andalusi historical self-conceptions and on how the inhabitants of al-Andalus viewed its meaning and signifi cance. Alejandro García Sanjuán has demonstrated that in the Arabic sources of the ninth to seventeenth centuries the term al-Andalus is used not only to refer to the section of the Peninsula under Muslim rule but to the Peninsula as a whole. For her part, Manuela Marín has traced various debates on the nature of the inhabitants of al-Andalus, showing, in part, how depictions of Andalusis as eff ete and passive resulted from their progressively declining political fortunes. María Jesús Viguera Molins has compared the history of the terms España and al-Andalus through the social and economic transactions of the inhabitants of these constantly changing areas. Finally, over thirty years ago Emilio García Gómez drew attention to the Andalusi literary tradition of defending the superiority of al-Andalus over that of Berber North Africa. However, despite their valuable contributions, none of these studies has fully explored the history of the signifi cance given to al-Andalus by its historians. One might think that nothing would be easier than to fi nd a rich tradition of historical narrative in which successive generations of historians, from diff erent political affi liations and ethnic backgrounds, would address at length the signifi cance of al-Andalus. After all, there exists a substantial body of texts beginning with Ibn Ḥabīb’s (d. 238/853) Kitāb al-Taʾrīkh in the ninth century and continuing down to al-Maqqarī’s (d. 1041/1631) Nafḥ al-Ṭīb in the seventeenth century, including fi nally the Riḥla of the Moroccan ambassador to Spain in 1690-1691, al-Ghassānī (d. 1119/1707). In the discussion below, I refer specifi cally to the following historical works:5

1. Ibn al-Qūtiyyạ (d. 367/977), Tārīkh Iftitāḥ al-Andalus6 2. al-Ḥumaydī (d. 488/1095), Jadhwat al-Muqtabas fī Dhikr Walāt al-Andalus 3. Anonymous (c. 503/1110), Fatḥ al-Andalus

5 Th is list should in no way be considered a comprehensive enumeration of Andalusi historical works. Th ough I consulted more sources than listed here, I cite only those in which I found material of direct relevance to this essay. 6 For a Spanish translation, see Ribera. J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 359 [203]

4. al-Ḍ abbī (d. 599/1203), Bughyat al-Multamis fī Tārīkh Rijāl Ahl al-Andalus 5. Ibn Saʿīd (d. 675/1276), al-Mughrib fī Ḥulā al-Maghrib7 6. Ibn al-Khatīḅ (d. 776/1374), Kitāb Aʿmāl al-Aʿlām8 7. Anonymous (c. eighth to ninth/fourteenth to ﬁ fteenth centuries), Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus9 8. al-Maqqarī, (d. 1041/1631), Nafḥ al-Ṭīb and Azhār al-Riyāḍ 10 9. al-Ghassānī (d. 1119/1707), Riḥlat al-Wazīr11

Th e reader interested in how and when al-Andalus’ conceptual signifi cance changed faces several obstacles. Th e fi rst of these is that while the geography and physical characteristics of al-Andalus are described at length, comparatively little is said about the place of the Peninsula within a larger historical narrative. Al-Andalus, it seems, is seldom viewed in history as having a character, past and future, of its own. Th e second major problem is that the sources themselves are diffi cult to interpret due to their period of composition (when it is known): later sources often quote from earlier ones without acknowledgment (Molina 513-515). Th e reader repeatedly faces the challenge of knowing if a quoted passage in the source is simply repeating previous information or whether the quotation has acquired a new signifi cance within its new framing. Th e sources themselves hinder a detailed and nuanced understanding of specifi c conceptualizations of al-Andalus, especially linked to the specifi c authors’ affi liation to given political establishments. A third and particularly frustrating obstacle to the historian wishing to present an audience with a progression of discrete conceptions of al-Andalus is that a preliminary reading of the texts reveals that many of these ideas co-existed from the beginning of Muslim presence in the Peninsula. A particularly striking example, as Maribel Fierro has shown, is the association of al-Andalus with events leading up to the end

7 Th is work is only extant in quoted passages, many of which are found in al-Maqqarī’s Nafḥ al-Ṭīb. 8 For an almost complete German translation, see Hoenerbach. 9 Luis Molina edited this work, translated it into Spanish and wrote an extensive commentary on its origins. See Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus. 10 Th e historical sections of Nafḥ al-Ṭīb were partially translated into English in the nineteenth century. See Gayangos. 11 I have relied upon the partial translation of al-Ghassānī’s text: the description of his actual journey without reference to earlier historical sources. For the text, see Matar (113-195). [204] 360 J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 of time and the fear of Muslim expulsion, which began not in the thirteenth through fi fteenth centuries, as one might expect, but in the fi rst century after the conquest.12 A fi nal complicating factor worth mentioning in this context is the question of genre: to what degree did historians feel that al-Andalus’ historical signifi cance needed to be addressed in the writing of history?13 In what ways did they approach the representation of nostalgia diff erently—if at all—from current historians of al-Andalus? At present these questions remain unanswered (and most probably unanswer- able), but they are worth posing before turning to a closer reading of the sources themselves.

A Land of Wonders During the classical period of Islamic civilization, many areas of Islamdom were praised for their exceptional nature, most explicitly in a genre known as the literature of merits (fadạ̄ ʾil). Beginning at the end of the third/ninth century, authors wrote works listing the merits of such cities as Mecca, Medina, Baghdad and Jerusalem, and of regions such as Egypt and Syria.14 While not all these cities and countries are praised in the same manner in all examples of the genre, a characteristic common to most is a list of the Qurʾānic verses and laudatory Prophetic traditions relating to the speciﬁ c location.15 While the following descriptions of al-Andalus are taken from historical works and not from the fadạ̄ ʾil literature, many of the elements discussed here have parallels in fadạ̄ ʾil texts linked to other areas or cities. Th is was certainly the case with the legendary pre-history of al-Andalus,

12 See Fierro (160) and Fierro and Faghia (100). Compare with Molina’s earlier comments in Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus (2: 307-308). 13 Th e degree to which pre-modern Muslim Andalusi historians were infl uenced by the conceptual boundaries of their predecessors continues, in my opinion, to be highly under- theorized. On the subject of how written historical narratives may well have ignored much of their authors’ actual experience, see al-Azmeh and Stearns. 14 I have not found a comprehensive study of fadạ̄ ʾil literature. For an overview of examples regarding Egypt, see Haarmann; for Jerusalem, see Sivan (“Th e Beginnings”) and Livne-Kafri (“Th e Muslim Traditions ‘In Praise of Jerusalem’ ” and “Fadạ̄ ʾil Bayt al-Maqdis”). I rely upon Sivan (“Th e Beginnings” 264) for the dating of the appearance of the fadạ̄ ʾil genre. 15 For prominent examples referring to, respectively, Egypt, al-Madina, Jerusalem and Syria, see al-Kindī (22-27; d. 350/961); al-Janadī (18-25; d. 308/920); Ibn al-Murajjā (7-43; fl . 429-439/1038-1048); and Ibn Qudāma al-Maqdisī (20-33; d. 744/1343). J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 361 [205] which, in its focus on wonders (ʿajāʾib), bears some resemblance to descriptions of Egypt.16 Historians have often complained that some early histories of al-Andalus— with the exception of the works of Ibn Ḥabib (d. 238/853) and Ibn al-Qūtiyya—including̣ the anonymous Akhbār Majmūʿa and Fatḥ al- Andalus, are little more than collections of fables and legends.17 Of interest here, however, is that for Andalusi historians these stories reached back into the pre-conquest period and showed for them that long before Mus- lims arrived on the Peninsula, al-Andalus was a land of wondrous and strange things. Th e picture of pre-Islamic al-Andalus off ered by these sources is varied, and we are given little indication of how to integrate the various accounts presented to us. Th e history of al-Andalus begins with its conquest and rule by one of the great-grandsons of Noah (Fatḥ al-Andalus 35). Much later al-Maqqarī presents an account of the digging of the Straits of Gibraltar by engineers of Alexander (NT 1: 135-136).18 Th e author of the Fatḥ al-Andalus explains the presence of the famed Table of Solomon, for example, found after the conquest by Ṭāriq or by Mūsā, as the plunder from the sack of Jerusalem by Christian kings after the alleged killing of Jesus by the Jews.19 Again, al-Maqqarī provides a series of anec- dotes completing our understanding of this pre-history, the fi rst of which relates to the genre of Fadạ̄ ʾil al-Andalus, in which the various attributes of the Peninsula are praised. Some scholars report, we are told, that “[t]he Christians were prevented from the paradise of the world to come, and so God gave them the paradise of this world, a garden stretching from the ocean at al-Andalus to the gulf of Constantinople” (NT 1: 137). Th is paradise of al-Andalus was further distinguished, we are told in an account recorded by Ibn Ḥayyān (d. 468/1076), by one of its pre-Christian kings— the eponymous Ishbān—who was visited by the Qurʾānic fi gure al-Khiḍr,

16 On the numerous pre-Islamic monuments and architectural wonders of Egypt, see Haarmann (59) and al-Kindī (65-71). On the wonders of Jerusalem, see Ibn al-Murajjā (145-147). 17 Molina, in his edition, dates Fatḥ al-Andalus to the early twelfth century (xxxii). For the problems posed by the more mythic aspects of these sources, see Kennedy (8-9 and n. 13). 18 Al-Maqqarī’s work, often mined for his quotation of earlier sources, has not received the attention it deserves; an exception is Elger. 19 Fatḥ al-Andalus (35-37), where the name of the king of al-Andalus is given as either Baytūsh or Hirqalush; al-Maqqarī credits an unnamed source with the same story, giving the name of Baryān for the king of al-Andalus involved in this conquest (NT 1: 135). [206] 362 J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 who foretold of Ishbān’s rise from poverty to rule over all al-Andalus.20 So that the king would believe the prophecy, al-Khiḍr causes Ishbān’s staff to sprout leaves (NT 1: 137-138).21 Beyond a rich past linked to the marvels of earlier prophets and their peoples, al-Andalus was generally depicted in the Faḍāʾil al-Andalus as pos- sessing a unique fl ora, rich crops and numerous rivers.22 In this it is most often compared with Syria as well as India.23 Some historians, however, stress that the age of its wonders (gharāʾib) did not end with the conquest, that it was capable of experiencing new ones as well. Ibn Saʿīd, for example, relates the story of an Abū Qāsim ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Zurkāl, who, having heard of al-Masʿūdī’s account of a wondrous talisman (al-tillasṃ ) in the Indian city of Ariyan that turned on its axis (bi-isbạ ʿihi) from dawn till dusk, built two basins outside Toledo that would fi ll with water and empty in accordance to the waxing and waning of the moon. Th ese, Ibn Saʿīd notes—with some satisfaction—were more wondrous than the talisman of

20 For an overview of al-Khiḍr’s many activities and appearances, see Franke. For al-Khiḍr’s association with Jerusalem in the Qisaṣ ̣ al-Anbiyaʾ literature, see Sivan (“Th e Beginnings” 268) and Ibn al-Murajjā (140). For a nineteenth-century account of al-Khiḍr’s presence attesting to the glory of the city of Damascus, see ʿArabī Kātibī (81-86). 21 Fifty-fi ve descendents of Ishbān ruled until they were replaced by the Roman Bashtu- laqat dynasty of twenty-seven kings, which was in turn overthrown by the Gothic kings. During this period, Jesus sent disciples to al-Andalus to convert its inhabitants. Most of these disciples were persecuted and killed, but one of them managed to convert a certain Khashandash (note that various sources give variants of the names of these early kings that are summarized in NT’s footnotes). Th e Goths remained Christian until the arrival of the Muslims (NT 1: 137-139). A reference to Moses’ encounter with the unnamed fi gure later given the name al-Khiḍr (described in Qurʾān 18: 60-82) taking place in Morocco near Ceuta is found in the seventeenth-century narrative of al-Ghassānī. See Matar (120). 22 A typical example is found in Ibn Saʿīd’s (d. 685/1286) refutation of Ibn Hawqal’s criticisms of al-Andalus (Marín; NT 1: 206-212). As noted in Marín, we possess Ibn Saʿīd’s work only through quotations cited in other texts, chiefl y al-Maqqarī’s Nafḥ al-Ṭīb. It is in Ibn al-Khatīb’ṣ Kitāb Aʿmāl al-Aʿlām that we fi nd one of the more intriguing examples of the genre: after describing the merits of al-Andalus, Ibn al-Khatīḅ notes that he had been told by one he had sent into the furthest reaches of Christian al-Andalus of the marvels of the remainder of the Peninsula that was under non-Muslim rule (4). 23 Th e comparison with Syria is common, in large part certainly because of the Syrian origin of al-Andalus’ Umayyad rulers and the Syrian troops who settled in al-Andalus in the 740s. For an example of the comparison, see Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus (2: 16). Decter has noted that this comparison became so wide-spread that Andalusis could reverse its original direction and observe that Syria reminded them of al-Andalus (“A Myrtle in the Forest” 138-139). In a twist on this trope, in the late nineteenth century Aḥmad Zakī claimed that Spain reminded him of Egypt. See Zakī (381) and the discussion of Zakī below. J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 363 [207]

India. Th e fountains remained until Toledo was conquered by the Chris- tians who wished to understand how they worked and in taking them apart in 527/1132 caused them to cease functioning (NT 1: 206-207).24

A Land of Jihād and Martyrdom Aside from its wonders, al-Andalus is most often characterized by the sources as a land of jihād, and in this it bears similarities to Jerusalem in those examples of the Faḍāʾil al-Quds literature that were written during and after the Muslims’ twelfth-century attempt to retake Jerusalem.25 Examples of al-Andalus being distinguished by jihād are numerous, and the present study will present only a few. In the Fatḥ al-Andalus, we ﬁ nd that before the arrival of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Dākhil, ʿUbayd Allāh had agreed to administer al-Andalus because it was distinguished as a place of jihād, and al-Ḥumaydī in the Jadhwat al-Muqtabas noted that a group of Successors of the Prophet (al-tābiʿūn) chose to enter al-Andalus for jihād (Fatḥ al-Andalus 50; al-Ḥumaydī 14; al-Ḍabbī 17). Al-Ḥumaydī followed this observation by quoting a prophetic tradition: “Th e people of the western lands [al-maghrib] will continue to exhibit true faith [ẓāhirīn] until the Hour arrives” (al-Ḥumaydī 14). While this tradition falls within a sub- genre of eschatological and millennial traditions, which I will discuss below, al-Ḥumaydī connects it to jihād as follows:

Th e Prophet had informed the people of this country in this ḥadīth, which has a con- tinuous isnād, of the appearance [ẓuhūr] and establishment of Islam in it until the occurrence of the Hour. Th is despite the twice-fold increase of the number of Chris- tians and their territory and the small number of Muslims in comparison to them. And it is true, according to the relation of the Trustworthy One [the Prophet], that it will be a victorious frontier of victory [thaghr mansūṛ ] until the arrival of the Hour, thanks be to God, Lord of the two worlds. (al-Ḥumaydī 14)

Centuries later, al-Maqqarī, whose comprehensive history of al-Andalus is structured around the life of the fourteenth-century vizir and scholar, Ibn

24 Ibn Saʿīd gives no explanation for why it should have taken the Christians almost fi fty years after the conquest of Toledo to decide to disassemble the fountains. On Ibn Saʿīd’s work only being preserved through other texts, see note 22. 25 Th e Faḍāʾil al-Quds literature enjoyed great popularity from the rise of Nur al-Dīn (1146-1174) to the fall of the Mamluks. See Sivan (“Le caractère sacré de Jérusalem” 166, 181). Jihād was not emphasized in the earlier work of Ibn al-Murajjā. [208] 364 J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 al-Khatīḅ (d. 776/1374), describes the latter as having “chastened . . . unbelief, the maw of which was open, and rolled up the sleeves of his personal judgment (ijtihāda-hu) and urged through speech and writing its defense and jihād for its sake ( jihāda-hu)” (NT 1: 79).26 Much later in his history, after quoting Ibn al-Khatīb’ṣ letter on the superiority of the jihād over the ḥājj, al-Maqqarī is able to comment: “Know that if there was for al-Andalus no virtue save in its being a fi eld for the excellent to carry out jihād, it would be enough” (NT 1: 186-187). As a fi nal example, we fi nd in the anonymous fourteenth-century Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus, a ḥadīth recorded by Ibn Bashkuwāl (d. 578/1182), confi rming that to live in al- Andalus is a joy while death there results in martyrdom (ḥayu-hā saʿīd wa maytu-hā shahīd).27 It is also in prophetic tradition that we fi nd the most detailed exploration of al-Andalus as a place linked to the end of time.

It Was Always the End of Time A discussion of the respective local relevance of the events of the end of time is a frequent occurrence in the fadạ̄ʾil literature in the cases of Syria, Egypt and especially Jerusalem.28 As Maribel Fierro has suggested, eschatological traditions attributed to the Prophet concerning al-Andalus may have been circulating in the Peninsula as early as the ﬁ rst century following the conquest. In these traditions we ﬁ nd al-Andalus described as a place of correct Muslim belief until the end of time. Its conquest from the Muslims was foretold by the Prophet and, interestingly enough, the fashion in which polytheists would drive Muslims from it as well.29 Al-Ḥumaydī, al-Ḍabbī and the anonymous author of Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus cite traditions stressing the presence of an Islam in al-Andalus that is distinguished by never having had the companions of the Prophet cursed from its min-

26 Th is passage was previously partially translated by Elger (300-301). 27 Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus 1: 15; Spanish translation on 2: 22. I have been unable to locate this tradition in Ibn Bashkuwāl’s Kitāb al-Silạ . 28 See respectively Ibn Qudāma al-Maqdisī (30-33); Haarmann (60); Livne-Kafri, “Jerusalem in Early Islam.” 29 See Fierro (160) and Fierro and Faghia (108, 110-111). Th e treatise edited by Fierro and Faghia falls precisely in this period: it is by Abū Bakr Muḥammad b. ʿAlī b. Muḥammad b. Aḥmad al-Fakhkhār al-Judhāmī (d. 723/1323) and entitled Fadạ̄ʾil al-Andalus. Th eir reference is to a tradition included by al-Judhāmī that Fierro has identifi ed as an abbrevi- ated version of a tradition included in Nuʿaym b. Hammād’s (d. 228/844) Kitāb al-Fitan. On this work, see Cook. J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 365 [209] bars.30 Th is emphasis is signifi cant considering onetime fears of Fatimid encroachment and reoccurring millennial rebellions in al-Andalus. Unsur- prisingly, however, in the thirteenth to fi fteenth centuries we fi nd increasing numbers of texts quoting prophetic traditions foretelling the fall of al-Andalus (Fierro 161).31 Al-Maqqarī off ers an interesting commentary in his quotation taken from a work by an Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad b. al-Ḥaddād al-Wādī Āshī (d. 634/1236) who quotes a jurist by the name of Ḥasan al-Qāʾid al-Zaʾīm regarding a talisman (tillsaṃ ) known as furūj al-rawāḥ that used to hang in Granada.32 Th is jurist, when the talisman was taken down on the occasion of the renovation of the building in which it was hung, was able to examine it and found on it an inscription foretelling the end of Muslim rule in Granada. Al-Wādī Āshī notes after relating this anecdote that the talisman had been correct and that all had been lost due to dissension among Muslim leaders (NT 4: 507).33 Th e story of the Granadan talisman off ers an interesting parallel to that of the locked cham- ber opened by Roderick, the last Gothic King, in which he saw the end of his own rule foretold (Ibn al-Qūtiyyạ 33). Th e beginning and end of the Muslim presence in al-Andalus are thus marked by an inevitability that has its source in prophecy. Maribel Fierro (160) has argued that millennial expectations and the circulation of eschatological Prophetic traditions represent an Andalusi awareness of the precariousness of their position in Iberia: an instability that with the centuries grew ever more evident. While this is certainly true, these narratives also emphasize a characteristic of al-Andalus itself: it is distinguished by having had prophecies devoted to it, and moreover, it is a place closely woven into God’s plan for the end of days. Here it distin- guishes itself from other parts of the Muslim world discussed in the fadạ̄ʾil

30 Jadhwat al-Muqtabas 14. Th is passage of al-Ḥumaydī is quoted in al-Ḍabbī (17); Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus 2: 26. 31 Traditions relating the benefi ts on the Day of Judgment attained by those who conquered al-Andalus also continue to be related, perhaps most strikingly in the case of a tradition found in al-Ḥimyarī (eighth/fourteenth century) attributed to the early Jewish convert Kaʿb al-Aḥbār (d. 34/654). See Makkī (177). For the actual tradition, see al-Ḥimyarī (33). A similar tradition attributed to Kaʿb al-Aḥbār is found in Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus (2: 25- 26), where it is cited from (pseudo-) Ibn Qutayba’s Imāma wa Siyāsa. 32 I have not been able to identify this jurist. 33 Al-Maqqarī follows this passage by citing Ibn ʿĀsiṃ (d. 857/1452) to the same eff ect: the Christian kings of his day had been able to achieve their conquests only due to internal dissension among Muslim leaders. [210] 366 J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 literature by not being either the site of the Mahdi’s return, such as North Africa (Fierro 170, 173) or Jerusalem (Sivan, “Le caractère sacré” 164-166) or an area, like Egypt, in which God’s wrath will be unleashed against pre- Islamic monuments (Haarmann 60); rather it is a region from which Mus- lims will be driven before the fi nal judgment.

Defi ning Nostalgia I began this essay by noting that current depictions of al-Andalus are characterized by nostalgia for a lost paradise. Th e question remains: what kind of nostalgia for al-Andalus do we fi nd in the Andalusi historical tradition? Did it exist in a form comparable to what we see in the modern day? It is certain that in the writings of historians from the Nasrid period—Ibn al-Khatīb,̣ Ibn Khaldūn, Ibn ʿĀsiṃ and others—a longing for former military glory and political prominence is expressed, but is this truly nostalgia for al-Andalus?34 Perhaps one only can fi nd a recognizable nostalgia for al-Andalus following 1492, after the possibility of Muslim rule of al-Andalus no longer existed.35 In the seventeenth century, then, one would expect al-Maqqarī to frame his magnum opus on Andalusi history with a certain amount of nostalgic reminiscence regarding the bygone glories of al-Andalus. Yet, he does not. Th e fi rst hundred pages of Nafh ̣ al-Ṭīb chronicle the author’s travels in the Mashriq and are fi lled with al-Maqqarī’s own longing for his former status in North Africa, but there is nothing referring to al-Andalus as a place for which he longs.36 Tellingly, when in Damascus al-Maqqarī is prevailed upon to write his book on Ibn al-Khatīb,̣ it is not because of the latter’s association with al-Andalus, but rather because of Ibn al-Khatīb’ṣ excellence in prose and poetry (NT 1: 69- 71). Indeed, when al-Maqqarī sings the praises of the Granadan vizier,

34 A similar nostalgia for former political and military prominence can be found in Arabic poetry in the eleventh century after the fall of the Umayyad caliphate. See, inter alia, Decter (“A Myrtle in the Forest” 141-143) but also Stetkevych (131, 192-193). Compare with the insightful remarks in Robinson on the changing nature of nostalgia in eleventh- century al-Andalus. 35 Indeed, this seems to have been the case among the morisco community living under Christian rule in the sixteenth century, who described Andalusia as a paradise and a new Jerusalem, emphasizing both its eschatological importance and its connection to jihād. See López Baralt (“El oráculo de Mahoma” 51). 36 On al-Maqqarī and Nafh ̣ al-Ṭīb, see Elger. J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 367 [211] al-Andalus has little or no place in the praise and is represented as anything but a paradise:

How excellent is he [wa nāhīka bi-man] to whom the sciences [al-ʿulūm] have revealed [atlạ ʿat-hu] their greatnesses and their inner workings [daqāʾiq-hā], to whom the arts have shown what he wished of the ripe fruits of their gardens, whom the garden muse [al-hikaṃ al-riyādiyyạ ] has revivifi ed with her fl owers and anemones, whom the government has suckled at her breast, with whom authority has invested the utmost of her magnanimity [wa hallaṭ bi-hi al-imāra sadṛ nadī-hā], making him the point of reference in distinguishing the good [of matters] from the bad, so that he planted in the earth of rulership the palms of [good] politics and their seed, raising up justice and sheathing the sword of revenge, warding off the monster [tanīn] of dissension, whose mouth was open in readiness to swallow [us]. Th is age is near [al-ʿahd idh dhāk qarīb] in the wondrous [al-gharīb] land of al-Andalus, [which was] of a confused state, ruled by barrenness, fi lled with the killing of kings [wa-l-tajarrī ʿalā qatl al-mulūk], the pursuit of banditry and the prevention of traveling, where there were vain desires of apostates and dissension, and the breasts of the righteous were full of anxiety and burning. (NT 1: 78-79)

A much more explicit form of nostalgia, however, is to be found in al-Maqqarī’s multi-volume homage to the prominent Māliki scholar Qāḍī Iyāḍ (d. 544/1149), entitled Azhār al-Riyād ̣ fī Akhbār ʿIyād.̣ Here, immediately preceding a plea written by Andalusi scholars to the Ottoman ruler Bayazid, al-Maqqarī has included an “elegy [qasīdạ fī nadb] to the Penin- sula, recollecting the souls [of al-Andalus] with its plaintiveness, bringing copious tears to the eyes” (Azhār al-Riyād ̣ 1: 104).37 Th e poem contains a detailed lament over the loss of al-Andalus, and its author, Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Ṣinhājī al-Daqūn (d. 921/1515), a preacher at the Qarawiy- yin mosque in Fas, is unabashed in his disappointment over the inaction of his fellow Muslims following the fall of Granada:38

Granada the beautiful has been occupied, she has been emptied of the grain of the harvest, the victory of God and of kin . . . Does the religion that was forgotten return to her [when] she had despaired of the victory of the saints [al-abdāl]? . . .

37 Th e poem to Bayazid has been translated by Monroe (Hispano-Arabic Poetry 376-389). 38 Al-Maqqarị̄, Azhār al-Riyād 1: 104-108. I quote here only several pertinent lines. [212] 368 J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374

Th ere are no mosques built [now] on [the principle] of God’s unity [tawhīd]; instead they build them with bells and icons, And no minbars for the giving of sermons protrude for commanding [right] and forbidding [wrong] or the remembrance of death [ājāl] . . . Our brothers raised the hands of entreaty [darạ̄ ʿa] with broken hearts; they did not cast oﬀ indolence.

If this is nostalgia, it is a decidedly diﬀ erent kind than any of the types found today. Not enough time has yet passed for al-Andalus to become a “lost paradise,” rather its loss is depicted as a blow to Islam with little distinguishing it from other such defeats.

Conclusion Muḥammad Kāmil al-Khatīḅ writes in the introduction to Aḥmad Zakī’s Rihlạ that:

Life is a dream, yes, life is a dream and the Arab’s longing for al-Andalus is nothing but a longing for a beautiful dream of the past. Th e most beautiful part of this dream is the most cruel: it is a beautiful dream that will not return. A dream of which nothing is left but the scent of memory and a culture remaining for humanity; which states that the Arabs in al-Andalus were not simply warriors or conquerors, and that what remains for mankind is not hate, conquest and wars, but dreams, culture, philosophy and poetry. Yet, it is not better and perhaps more useful, that with the dream of the Anda- lusian past in all its greatness, its inﬂ uence and heavenly nature, that we have a dream for the future and its paradise? Th at we weave together, Arab and Spaniard, from all peoples, instead of dreams of the past that will not return, dreams of a humane future, where the world is a paradise for all? Let us dream of a day when the whole world becomes a single Andalus. (17)

What kind of a place was al-Andalus? At the beginning of this paper I quoted Hisham Aidi’s observation that, in remarkably diﬀ erent ways, al-Andalus represents a lost paradise evoked wistfully today by jihadists, historians and discriminated minorities alike. It is true, of course, that this nostalgia is not shared by all. In 2004, former Spanish Prime Minister Aznar commented that the attacks of both 3/11 and 9/11 had their roots in the Muslim invasion of Iberia in 711.39 Nonetheless, a nostalgia for

39 For a summary of Aznar’s remarks on the occasion of his fi rst class as professor at J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 369 [213] al-Andalus is rampant in the popular press and in some branches of academia as well. Strikingly, such a nostalgia is hardly apparent in the work of the Andalusi historians themselves. Readers of Muslim historians who wrote up until the seventeeth century will fi nd that al-Andalus was a hybrid: a place of wonders, a land of jihād, with a close link to the end of days. Above all, the concept of al-Andalus is, in historical works, only seldom described for its own sake; and when it is, it appears as a composite of the themes. Th e representation of al-Andalus that is discussed in this essay began to change in the late ninteenth century. Before this period, only a few Muslim travelers and ambassadors had visited Spain since the expulsion of the moriscos in 1609-1614. Over eighty years ago, Henri Pérès observed that the Moroccan ambassadors al-Ghassānī (d. 1119/1707) and al-Ghazzāl (d. 1191/1777) only infrequently expressed the hope of God returning al-Andalus to them (Pérès 9, 33). For Pérès, this trend shifted with the writings of the Moroccan ambassador al-Kardūdī (d. c. 1900), who visited Madrid in 1885 and upon his return wrote down his impressions (Pérès 42). While al-Kardūdī’s tone is perhaps more vehement than his predecessors in mourning the loss of Muslim lands, his visit is especially remarkable for it belonging to an era of Arab visitors from as far afi eld as Egypt and Syria beginning to come to Spain with greater frequency. Th e renewed interest in Spain can be linked, Pérès argued, to, on the one hand, an Otto- man interest in acquiring Arabic manuscripts from Europe to begin print- ing scholarly editions of Arabic works, and, more importantly, to Egyptian and Ottoman scholars attending a series of international congresses for Orientalists, beginning with the seventh international congress in Vienna in 1886. Many of these scholars took advantage of the opportunity of being in Europe to travel to Spain and to visit the remains of al-Andalus (Pérès 53-54). More recently, relying in part on the work of Nieves Parad- ela, Pedro Martínez Montávez has argued for the central importance of the Egyptian Aḥmad Zakī’s (d. 1934) visit to Spain in 1893 in developing the topos of al-Andalus being a “lost paradise” (Martínez Montávez 26-27; Pérès 72-95). Zakī, who traveled in Spain after attending the ninth international congress of Orientalists in London in 1892, devoted a section of his Th e Trip to the Congress (al-Safar ilā-l-Muʾtamar) to his experiences in

Georgetown University on September 21, 2004, see Pardo. For insightful discussions of the Spanish debate regarding their relationship with Spain’s Muslim past, see both Rogozen- Soltar and Aidi (“Th e Interference of al-Andalus”). [214] 370 J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374

Spain. Departing from previous depictions of Spain, Zakī was able to rec- oncile a longing for Spain’s Muslim past with a simultaneous praise for the character of the Spaniards of his day. He resolved this tension, in part, by recognizing in the Spanish morals and character essential Arab characteristics (Zakī 425), an observation perhaps facilitated by his being the fi rst Arab visitor to Spain in the nineteenth century who spoke Spanish.40 Yet it is also in Zakī that we fi rst fi nd a description of al-Andalus that is not only marked by a sorrow for past Islamic glory, but which also depicts al-Anda- lus as an ethical model worthy of imitation (Martínez Montávez 30).41 Th e Trip to the Congress proved infl uential in drawing the attention of Arab intellectuals, some of whom—most notably the Egyptian nationalist poet Aḥmad Shawqī (d. 1932) who lived in Spain in exile from 1915 to 1919— adopted Zakī’s attitude towards Spain and embraced it as a new home.42 As widespread as nostalgia is for al-Andalus today, its nature may well be changing. In recent essays, both William Granara and Nouri Gana have drawn attention to novels by Arab and Arab-American authors who visual- ize al-Andalus less as a glorious past and more as a promise of common humanity that regardless of historic accuracy off ers a productive answer to contemporary challenges (Granara 72; Gana 231). In these narratives, as in the quoted passage from al-Khatīb,̣ the reader encounters al-Andalus not as a past to be lamented, the memory of which should be elegized, but as a call for political and social action in the present. To what extent these revisions of Andalusian nostalgia will be eff ective is uncertain; yet it is possible that the long century in which al-Andalus was considered a lost paradise is beginning to end, though what precisely will replace it is not yet clear.43

40 Pérès and Martínez Montávez disagree regarding Zakī’s linguistic abilities. Compare Pérès (77) with Martínez Montávez (30, n. 11). 41 Muḥammad Kāmil al-Khatīb,̣ the editor of the recent republication of the Spanish section of Zakī’s narrative (1990), takes this idealism to new heights, as demonstrated in the quotation cited in the conclusion. Martínez Montávez cited approvingly al-Khatīb’ṣ classifi cation of Zakī’s relation as representing a new type of travel literature, one of nostalgia (Martínez Montávez 28; al-Khatīḅ 12-13). 42 Al-Shawqī’s work has been the subject of numerous studies. On his view of Spain and al-Andalus, see Pérès (100-120) and Martínez Montávez (39-52); and for a comparison of his vision of al-Andalus with that of Iqbal, see Noorani. 43 While sympathetic to Gana’s suggestion that a de-Romantization of al-Andalus may be, in part, driven by our awareness of the inability to fulfi ll the potential seemingly off ered by Andalusian convivencia, I am unconvinced by her fear that the bleak tone of Richard Fletcher’s survey of Andalusian history—Moorish Spain—could support the “Clash of J. Stearns / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 355-374 371 [215]

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Legends of the Fall: Conde Julián in Medieval Arabic and Hispano-Latin Historiography

Denise K. Filios Department of Spanish, University of Iowa, Iowa City, IA 52242, USA e-mail: denise-ﬁ [email protected]

Abstract “Legends of the Fall: Conde Julián in Medieval Arabic and Hispano-Latin Historiography” examines the development of the Julián legend in the earliest extant accounts of the Mus- lim expansion into the Iberian Peninsula. Th e essay argues that both Arabic and Hispano- Latin chroniclers used the Julián fi gure to articulate their views of the Strait of Gibraltar as either a bridge connecting the Maghreb to al-Andalus or as a border between Africa and Europe. While the Julián fi gure is a border-crosser in all medieval chronicles, its specifi c treatment in each account varies in order to refl ect shifting relations between realms. In early Arabic historiography, the Julián fi gure refl ects tensions between the ʿAbbāsids and the Umayyads, whereas in the Hispano-Latin tradition, it refl ects relations between Christian and Muslim domains within the Iberian Peninsula. In both traditions, this anomalous fi g- ure mediates between mutually-exclusive hegemonies without subsuming itself within either side.

Keywords Spain, Muslim expansion, al-Andalus, historiography

Stories of the Muslim expansion into Hispania/al-Andalus form a central part of the national foundational legends of both Spain and Morocco.1 A good example of a Spanish foundational narrative is the Conde Julián

1 A note on terminology. I replicate the terms used in the texts I analyze—Arabic, Latin, and Castilian—to acknowledge that each term refl ects a diff erent perspective on the land mass or character identifi ed. To avoid confusion, in some cases after an ambiguous term I put in parenthesis the word most commonly used in modern scholarship to identify the place or character. I use expansion to avoid the negative connotations of conquest, a term which refl ects the dominant Hispano-Latin Occidental view of the Muslim presence in the Iberian Peninsula and which contrasts sharply with the very positive connotations of the

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2009 [220] 376 D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 legend. Drawing on medieval Hispano-Latin and Arabic chronicles, the legend recounts how the treacherous Conde Julián opened the doors of Hispania to the Muslims to avenge Rodrigo’s rape of his daughter. Th e facts of the story continue to be controversial to this day. In this article, I explore the local signifi cance of the Julián fi gure in early Hispano-Latin and Arabic chronicles which present polemical views of the events of 711. In particular I will study the Crónica mozárabe de 754; ʿAbd al-Malik Ibn Ḥabīb’s (d. 853) Kitāb al-Taʾrīkh (History Book); Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam’s (d. 870-871) Futūḥ Misṛ (Th e Opening of Egypt); Crónica de Alfonso III (post 884); Akhbār Majmūʿa fī fatḥ al-Andalus (c. 940, Traditions concerning the Opening of al-Andalus); Ibn al-Qūtiyya’ṣ Tārīkh iftitāḥ al-Andalus (before 977, History of the Opening of al-Andalus); the Chronica gothorum pseudo-isidoriana (1100-1150); the Historia silense (1110-1120); and the Chronicon mundi by Lucas, Bishop of Tuy (1236-1242): texts that narrate the arrival of the Muslims in the Peninsula and introduce provocative variants in the legends.2 I argue that the character Julián (usually called Yulyān in Arabic sources and Iulianus in Hispano-Latin) is incorporated into medieval chronicles to create and promote a certain understanding of the Strait of Gibraltar, either as a border between two cultures or as a bridge that connects al-Andalus and the Maghreb.3 Th ese mutually exclusive constructions of the Strait refl ect their authors’ positive or negative views of Muslim rule in the Iberian Peninsula, views they articulate through their treatment of the Julián fi gure. As I will demonstrate, medieval chroniclers’ depiction of Julián changes according to their socio-political situation and the desired reality they wished to construct. Recent historians’ treatment of the Julián fi gure refl ects their disagreement over how to read the earliest accounts of the Muslim expansion into the Iberian Peninsula. Th e work of Roger Collins and Pedro Chalmeta Gendrón nicely illustrates this debate. In Th e Arab Conquest of Spain, Col- lins argues that Julián is a fi ctive character because he is not included in the earliest extant account of the Muslim expansion found in the so-called Crónica mozárabe de 754, which Collins considers the most historically reliable text due to its early composition and relative objectivity. Collins

Arabic fatḥ, or ‘opening.’ I would like to acknowledge the support I received from the Stanley International Programs/Obermann Center Research Fellowship of the University of Iowa. 2 I omit chronicles that do not narrate the expansion in any detail, such as the Crónica de 741, and those that closely replicate a source, such as the Crónica najerense. 3 See Machado for a thorough discussion of the names of the Julián ﬁ gure. D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 377 [221] situates the Crónica de 754 in the Latin tradition of Christian historiography while arguing that it does not express an anti-Muslim view, perhaps because it was composed under Muslim rule (Arab Conquest 31-36, 52- 65).4 Chalmeta in Invasión e islamización insists on the reliability of Arabic chronicles written between the ninth and sixteenth centuries, almost all of which depict Julián as a key player in the expansion. Chalmeta contributes to the legend by arguing that Julián invented the story of his daughter’s rape by Rodrigo to justify betraying him. Chalmeta bases his argument on chronology: the rape would need to have occurred in 709, before Rodrigo assumed the throne in 710, and therefore cannot be true. As Ramón Mené- ndez Pidal observes (301), in some Arabic accounts the rape is attributed to Witiza, a variance that Chalmeta reads as supporting his argument (102-104, 113-121). Th e primary issue at stake for both Collins and Chal- meta is the historical reliability of the earliest chronicles. Both wish to insist on the historical veracity of at least one chronicle: Chalmeta privileges the entire medieval Arabic historiographic tradition over the His- pano-Latin, whereas Collins considers only the Crónica de 754 as reliable. I would argue that by insisting on the historical reliability of medieval chronicles both Collins and Chalmeta misconstrue the nature of the truths that the chronicles attempt to construct. Other historians, such as E- duardo Manzano Moreno (“Topoi”) and Janina Safran, have suggested that the early Arabic chronicles are primarily ideological and/or politically convenient accounts designed to serve their authors’ and patrons’ interests, an approach to the chronicles that I would apply to the Hispano-Latin tradition as well.5 As Hayden White argues, the point of early medieval historical narratives is to explain events in a more or less totalizing way, to construct an intelligible plot line from a series of events so that they become meaningful. I would suggest that medieval chronicles did not merely represent a meaningful reality; they sought to construct and aﬀ ect that reality, often with an eye to the future. Th e choices made by chroniclers—what they chose to include or to omit—were determined by the nature of the reality

4 See Tolan for a diff erent reading of the Crónica de 754 (79-84). Some scholars, including Machado, García Moreno and most recently Drayson (19) have argued that the character Urbanus, a Christian who helps Mūsā, is Julián; the editor of the Crónica de 754, López Pereira, disagrees. 5 I am not the fi rst to discuss how early medieval chronicles should be read; this has long been a subject of debate among historians. For an overview of the debate among Hispano- medievalists, see Bonch-Bruevich 5-6, esp. n. 6. [222] 378 D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 they wanted to create. Given the motivations of medieval historiography, I would argue that it is much more appropriate and useful to read these texts not as truthful narratives but as “belief tales,” as stories meant to be believed and to construct reality for their tellers and audience. Chroniclers are ideo- logically motivated writers who seek to persuade their readers to adopt their world view and/or address themselves to those who share that view. Rather than extracting historical facts from such texts, we would more use- fully seek an understanding of how the writers wished to view and construct their reality. In my analysis of the earliest accounts of the Muslim expansion into the Iberian Peninsula, I will show that the desire to construct appropriate relations between Christianity and Islam is evident in the Hispano-Latin chronicles under study. Muslim attitudes toward Christianity are not a main preoccupation of Arabic chronicles due to the virtually undisputed Muslim superiority within al-Andalus during the period I examine here (Tolan). Nonetheless, Arabic chroniclers had their own ideological agenda, including legitimizing Muslim rule by depicting al-Andalus as a territory destined to be incorporated into the Islamic world and defi ning relations between the center of the Muslim world and al-Andalus on its periphery. Th ese diff erent ideological objectives deeply aff ect the construction of the Strait and the treatment of the Julián fi gure. In what follows, I will analyze the Julián account in the Arabic and His- pano-Latin chronicles listed above. To make the large number of texts I examine here manageable, I focus somewhat narrowly on the Julián fi gure, who does not appear in the two earliest Latin chronicles under study. While this fi gure acquires a marked ideological function in both traditions, its very diff erent treatment in the earliest chronicles (in the work of ʿAbd al-Malik Ibn Ḥabīb and Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam in Arabic and in the Latin Chronica gothorum pseudo-isidoriana and the Historia silense), in a period before the legend became largely fi xed, shows how the character refl ected diff erent constructions of the Strait in particular and borders in general. In addition, in the Hispano-Latin chronicles, the treatment of this character refl ects changing attitudes toward the Muslim presence in the Peninsula. In all versions of the legend, Julián is a border-crosser, a character who controls access to the Strait and easily crosses between the Maghreb and al-Andalus, between Africa and Hispania. I argue that the treatment of this fi gure refl ects the constantly changing and highly political views of the Strait and of borders between territories in general. A contextualized D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 379 [223] examination of the various depictions of the Julián fi gure can trace the changes in these views over time.6 As mentioned above, the Julián fi gure does not appear in the earliest extant chronicle that narrates the Muslim arrival, the Crónica de 754. Yulyān, as he is usually called in Arabic sources, fi rst appears in the Futūh ̣ Misṛ , written c. 870 by the Egyptian Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam. However, a pre- cursor to the Julián fi gure is found earlier in the fi rst extant account of Andalusian history, ʿAbd al-Malik Ibn Ḥabīb’s Kitāb al-Taʾrīkh (c. 852), which includes an unnamed North African sheikh who tells Ṭāriq how to open al-Andalus. Since to my knowledge there is no extant translation of this text, I include here a rough translation of the signifi cant passage:

ʿAbd al-Malik Ibn Ḥabīb said: Ibn Waḥb said that Mūsā b. Nusayṛ sent his client Ṭāriq to Tlemcen and ordered him to reconnoiter the coastline and the docks and to put a watch on them so that, perhaps, he could stumble upon a Rūm [Christian] ship on which there would be a sheikh with mystical knowledge. So he [Ṭāriq] did, and he found him, and asked him: “Do you know in your mystical knowledge who will open al-Andalus?” He answered: “Th e people who are called the Berber will open it with you when they are of your faith.” So Ṭāriq wrote about this to Mūsā b. Nusayr,̣ and he [Mūsā] recruited a great many Berber and of those he sent a thousand men to him [Ṭāriq]. (136-137)7

Th e account continues with a series of prophetic announcements by Mūsā, detailing the mysterious tasks that Ṭāriq must accomplish to succeed in his mission. Ibn Ḥabīb’s version of events is unique; I would suggest it represents an early tradition that was rejected in favor of the version recounted by Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam, which was almost universally adopted by later Ara- bic chroniclers.8 Nonetheless, Ibn Ḥabīb’s version clearly reveals the narrative function of the Julián ﬁ gure which the more elaborated accounts tend to obscure. Ibn Ḥabīb’s “sheikh with knowledge” may well be based on the “knower,” a mysterious wise man who tests Mūsā [Moses] in Qurʾān 18: 60-82 (394-397).9 Th is anonymous “knower,” who in exegetical works is

6 For an overview of the Julián story, see Hernández Juberías 165-171, 177-194. 7 Dozy (30) paraphrases this passage in his discussion of Ibn Ḥabīb. I am greatly indebted to Khaḍija Bounou and Aḥmed E. Souaiaia for their help in translating and interpreting this passage. 8 See Makkī for an account of the reception of Ibn Ḥabīb’s work (190-200). 9 Souaiaia, personal communication, August 5, 2008; Souaiaia provides the full text of [224] 380 D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 called al-Khaḍir or ‘the green man,’ is found at the juncture of two waters. As Brannon M. Wheeler indicates, in some exegetical traditions this juncture is located in the far West near Ṭanja (Tangier), where the Garden of Eden is also located (210). Both al-Khaḍir and Ibn Ḥabīb’s sheikh are associated with boats and possess mystical knowledge; moreover, they both play the folkloric role of a magical helper (Propp 80-81). Th e sheikh appears at a moment of crisis for Ṭāriq, when he lacks the necessary tools (knowledge and allies) to continue the Muslim expansion into al-Andalus. Th e sheikh endows Ṭāriq with these tools and then disappears from the narrative. Th is mysterious ﬁ gure is a plot device to move the action forward to its necessary end: the incorporation of al-Andalus into dār al-islām, the Islamic realm; his similarities to al-Khaḍir help inscribe this territory into Islamic history and highlight its paradisiacal qualities. How- ever, al-Andalus is separated from the rest of the Muslim world by a physical barrier, the Strait, which impedes Ṭāriq’s progress and which he cannot cross without the help of locals. In Arabic historiography and geography, the Strait is not treated as a border per se. In the early sources, borders separate dār al-islām from dār al-ḥarb, ‘the abode of war’: i.e., territories not incorporated into the Mus- lim world and especially those ruled and/or inhabited by peoples hostile to Islam. Th e dominant term for such borders, thughūr, was applied to the borders between Islamic and Byzantine territories in the Middle East and to the divide between Islamic and Christian territories within the Penin- sula. As Manzano Moreno has shown, rather than a rigidly closed barrier between two hostile and mutually exclusive realms, thughūr are constructed as a series of permeable openings or access routes into the other territory. Th is permeability made Islamic territories vulnerable to attack from without, so an important quality of a good ruler was his ability to defend the borders, protecting his realm from invasion (Manzano Moreno, La frontera 43-48; see also Bonner). However, the Strait was not such a border since it was located within dār al-islām. It marked instead the unstable and relatively unimportant divisions between the territories of the Maghreb and al-Andalus. In all accounts of the Muslim expansion into al-Andalus, the Strait functions as a momentary obstacle that, due to the intervention of a helpful local, transforms itself into an access route or bridge. Th at helpful local is the Julián ﬁ gure.

Qurʾān 18: 60-82 and its exegetical interpretation (17-23). See Wheeler for the reception of this story in early Islamic commentaries and in modern scholarship. D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 381 [225]

Given the relative unimportance of the territorial boundary between the Maghreb and al-Andalus, it is not surprising that the anonymous sheikh plays a minor role in Ibn Ḥabīb’s account. Th e slightly later version of Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam (c. 870) describes how Yulyān, governor of Septa (Ceuta) and al-Khaḍrā (Algeciras), who had successfully fended off Muslim advances, sent his daughter to study at the court of Lūdrīq (Rodrigo), who impregnated her. Yulyān, upon learning of this, decided to avenge himself by sending the Arabs against Lūdrīq and off ering to help Ṭāriq, with whom he allied, to enter al-Andalus. Ṭāriq accepted the proposal made by Yulyān, who also provided the ships in which the troops crossed the Strait, landed at Gebel Ṭāriq (Gibraltar) and from there set off to subjugate al-Andalus (42-43). Th is version makes Yulyān a key fi gure in the expansion and ratio- nalizes his behavior. Like other local rulers mentioned in the Futūḥ Misṛ , Yulyān resists Muslim advances, acting as a good governor who defends his borders; but it is necessary that he alter his attitude and cease to impede Muslim progress, and for a justifi able cause. Th is cause has nothing to do with the Muslim presence and everything to do with Visigothic aff airs, specifi cally with the immoral behavior of a bad king who preys upon a young woman entrusted to him. Lūdrīq’s tyrannical behavior makes him unfi t to rule and casts the Muslim expansion into al-Andalus in positive terms, as a just regime change that brings a superior civilization to the Peninsula. In comparison to the minor role played by the anonymous sheikh in Ibn Ḥabīb’s account, Yulyān plays an essential role in the Muslim expansion. While he still acts as a helper fi gure, testing and then aiding the protagonist, in Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam’s version and in all subsequent accounts, Yulyān initiates the Muslim expansion into al-Andalus and also provides the means of transportation to ferry the Muslim troops across the Strait. As Collins has demonstrated, although the expansion story, as recounted in medieval chronicles, depicts the North African Muslims as lacking boats, in reality, by 711 Muslim ships dominated the western Mediterranean (Visigothic Spain 128-130). Th e idea that Ṭāriq lacked boats is an invention that makes the Yulyān fi gure key in the Muslim expansion into Europe. Yulyān is central not for historical reasons but for narrative purposes. It is necessary that he mediate between the Visigothic regime and the Muslim newcomers to construct a persuasive narrative of justifi ed regime change and explain the decision to continue the expansion north. Why did the Yulyān story fi rst appear in Arabic chronicles in the ninth century? It is possible the story originated in the late eighth century. Ibn Ḥabīb attributes it to ʿAbd Allāh b. Wahḅ (d. 812), an Egyptian traditionalist [226] 382 D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 whose work is only known through Ibn Ḥabīb. Maḥmūd Makkī argues that Ibn Ḥabīb never met Ibn Waḥb, who died a decade before Ibn Ḥabīb left al-Andalus to study in Fustāt (199). It is possible that Ibn Ḥabīb invented the story and attributed it to Ibn Waḥb. It is also possible that the tale originated with al-Layṭ b. Saʿd (d. 791), an Egyptian historian who invented many Andalusian legends, including that of the locked house that Lūdrīq opened in violation of tradition and that of the amazing Table of Solomon, which fueled confl icts between Mūsā and Ṭāriq. Both Ibn Ḥabīb and Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam studied with disciples of al-Layt b. Saʿd and both include these legends in their accounts (Makkī 174-80). If the tale passed through these men, then it originated in the late eighth century; it may not have been recorded until the ninth when the history of al-Andalus was perhaps written for the fi rst time, and by an Andalusian.10 Territorial pride and consciousness of Andalusian distinctness are certainly evident in Ibn Ḥabīb’s account, which constructs al-Andalus as a marvelous land of prophecy. For his part, Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam treats al-Andalus as yet another territory destined to be incorporated into dār al-islām, like Misr,̣ Ifrīqīya and the Maghreb. Th e explanation of why the Yulyān story developed in the late eighth or early ninth century, I believe, is threefold. Th e fi rst explanation is the emergence in precisely this period of written chronicles, which created the need for more coherent, totalized narratives of the Muslim expansion; as I argue above, the Julián fi gure performs a narrative function, making the story intelligible and meaningful. A second explanation has to do with the rise of the ʿAbbāsid Caliphate and the resurgence of the Umayyad dynasty in al-Andalus. Interestingly, both Ibn Ḥabīb and Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam show a distinct inclination toward the Umayyads. Ibn Ḥabīb served ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II as a legal advisor (Makkī 189-190); his interests in celebrating the Umayyad dynasty and the uniqueness of al-Andalus are obvious. Why Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam, an Egyptian, would favor the Umayyads is less clear. His positive portrayal of Umayyad caliphs could be part of his overall attempt to present the western expansion as an important part of Islamic history despite the eastern focus of Islamic historiography.11 Th e third

10 Islamic history was primarily transmitted orally; see Makkī for the line of transmitters and innovators previous to the earliest extant written versions. 11 Vidal Beltrán suggests that Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam’s sources were primarily Ifrīqīyan, based in Qayrawan, and that his work represents an attempt to counter the general dis- missal of Misr,̣ Ifrīqīya, the Maghreb and al-Andalus in Islamic histories (9-10). D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 383 [227] explanation has to do with constructions of the Strait. Th e Strait, while not a border in the strict sense, did function as a territorial boundary within dār al-islām. It marked Andalusian diff erence, north of the furthest western Islamic region, on the edge of the world from a Baghdadi perspective. Th e distance between Baghdad and Córdoba enabled both ʿAbbāsids and Umayyads not to feel overly threatened by each other’s prominence, even as the eastern capital remained the standard against which the western emirate measured itself. Both these early chronicles create a meaningful narrative out of the events of 711, celebrate the Umayyad dynasty and distance al-Andalus from the Middle East. Nonetheless, they construct the Strait diff erently, as refl ected in their treatment of the Julián fi gure. Ibn Ḥabīb’s anonymous sheikh plays his helper role, thereby confi guring the Strait as a bridge between al-Andalus and the Maghreb, and then disappears, in no way threatening the glory of Ṭāriq and Mūsā. In Ibn ʿAbd al- Ḥakam’s account, Yulyān plays a major role when he turns against Lūdrīq, proposes that Ṭāriq enter al-Andalus, and provides the ships to enable him to do so. Yulyān’s changing allegiances make him an ambiguous fi gure who fi rst impedes and then facilitates the Muslim expansion, just as the Strait both connects and separates the Maghreb and al-Andalus. Almost all subsequent Arabic accounts follow Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam’s version with some variations. According to the anonymous Akhbār Majmūʿa fī fatḥ al-Andalus (c. 940, during the reign of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III), after learning of his daughter’s rape, Yulyān approaches Mūsā, not Ṭāriq, and the distant caliph al-Walīd’s fear of crossing the perilous Straits leads to an initial raiding expedition led by Ṭarīf (who left his name on Tarifa), followed in the next year by a full invasion force led by Ṭāriq (20-21). Th is detail increases the signifi cance of the watery boundary; the great care the Umayyad caliph al-Walīd takes to protect his troops depicts him as a good ruler, highlighting the caliph’s authority over his obedient client Mūsā and implicitly reinforcing the authority and legitimacy of his descendent ʿAbd al-Raḥmān (Safran 120-124).12 In Ibn al-Qūtiyya’ṣ Tārīkh iftitāḥ al-Anda- lus (before 977, during the reign of al-Ḥakam II), the author, a descendent of Witiza, tells a diff erent version of the Yulyān story. After explaining how the sons of Ghītisha (Witiza) allied themselves with Ṭāriq to punish and defeat the usurper Lūdrīq, Ibn al-Qūtiyyạ then introduces Yulyān. In his account, Yulyān is a Christian merchant who travels between al-Andalus

12 Mūsā does end badly, as in previous versions including the Crónica de 754, punished for trying to claim all the glories and much of the treasure for himself. [228] 384 D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 and Ṭanja to acquire horses and falcons for Lūdrīq; his wife dead, he entrusts his daughter to Lūdrīq’s care, who rapes the beautiful girl (5-6, 7-8). In this version Yulyān plays a role secondary to that of Ghītisha’s sons, and Lūdrīq is presented as a thoroughly illegitimate, villainous ruler, refl ecting the author’s familial stake in the narrative (Safran 132-135).13 In all the early Arabic accounts, Yulyān controls the Strait, whether politically, by ruling territories on both its southern and northern coasts, or in a more mysterious way, as with Ibn Ḥabīb’s mystical sheikh. He subsumes the Strait within himself, making it passable, converting it from a barrier into a means of access into al-Andalus. Nonetheless, his role is limited to that of a helper fi gure, so that generally he disappears from the narrative after Ṭāriq lands on the Andalusian shore. Th e Julián fi gure is a rather late addition to Hispano-Latin chronicles. Its introduction, I argue, refl ects changing views of the Muslim presence in the Peninsula. Julián is absent from the two earliest Hispano-Latin chronicles that relate the events of 711 in any detail. Th e Crónica de 754 briefl y explains the Visigothic defeat due to internal divisions (68-69), primarily due to Rudericus’ political ambitions (Tolan 80). Th e Crónica de Alfonso III (after 884) blames the treacherous sons of Vuittiza, who help the Saracens enter Yspania and abandon Rudericus in battle (20-22), a story that feeds into the Pelagius myth of maintaining Visigothic legitimacy in Asturias.14 Th e Julián fi gure fi nally appears in the early twelfth century. Due to challenges in dating the Chronica gothorum pseudo-isidoriana (1100-1150), it is unclear whether it is earlier than the Historia silense (1110-1120); both include the Julián story but in very diff erent forms. Th e Chronica gothorum pseudo-isidoriana contains a unique version of the legend. Th e renowned beauty of Iulianus’ daughter sparks Geticus’ (Witiza’s) desire for her, and he employs an elaborate ruse to get her to his court. First, Geticus brings Iulianus to Ispalis (Seville) and stupefi es him with drink at an endless feast; then he steals Iulianus’ signet and sends a false letter to his wife and daughter to have them come to Ispalis. Finally, Geti- cus rapes Oliba, Iulianus’ daughter, while her father is still enjoying the feast. Eventually Iulianus notices one of his men who should be in Tingi-

13 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥakam (42) and the Akhbār Majmūʿa (4, 18-19) highlight the commercial traffi c between Ceuta and Algeciras under Yulyān’s control and the presence of merchants in his company. 14 It seems possible that one of the authors of this Crónica, Dulcidius, an Andalusian Christian (Tolan 98-99), knew the Julián story but chose to omit it in order not to over- shadow the vicious Vuittiza and his treacherous sons. D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 385 [229] tania (Tangier) in the banquet hall and asks him why he is there. Having learned that his wife and daughter were called to Ispalis by a letter bearing his seal, Iulianus has his wife brought to him, and she recounts the whole story, including Oliba’s rape. Iulianus and his wife abandon Oliba and fl ee to Leptis; then he seeks out Tarec and off ers to help him enter Ispania, convincing a skeptical Tarec of his sincerity by entrusting his wife and other children to him as hostages. Geticus dies before Tarec arrives in Ispania, and his sons conspire against Rodericus. After Tarec’s victory, Iulianus advises him how to subjugate Yspania (182-191). Th is variant does not explain who Iulianus is or his relationship with Geticus; he is of interest primarily due to his beautiful daughter whose rape will cause the fall of Spain. Both Geticus and Iulianus are loathsome, vicious individuals, while Rodericus is a legitimately elected king who suff ers for Geticus’ crime. As Menéndez Pidal argues, the Chronica pseudo-isidoriana proves that the Julián legend existed in at least two variants, one that blames the rape on Witiza and another that blames Rodrigo (299-319). Th e use of the Witiza variant is not casual; it presents Rodericus as an innocent victim of Iulianus and Geticus’ sons and supports the Pelagius myth promoted by the Asturian-Leonese chronicles even though the pseudo-isidoriana does not include that legend. As in the Arabic tradition, Iulianus is a border- crosser whose familiarity with both sides of the Strait makes him an invaluable ally for Tarec. Iulianus’ initiative in inviting Tarec to invade Hispania makes him primarily responsible for the Muslim victory and their illegitimate presence in the Peninsula. Th e version found in the Historia silense (1110-1120) gives the sons of Victica (Witiza) a much more prominent role. Exiled by Rodericus, they seek out Iulianus, count of Tingitania, and ask him to help overthrow Rodericus by introducing the Moors into Spain. To persuade him, they tell him that Rodericus took his daughter as a concubine, not as a wife. Iulia- nus and Victica’s sons propose the invasion plan to Tarich. Iulianus leads an army of Christians and bárbaros against Rodericus, an action not found in Arabic sources (127-129). Th is version highlights the suff ering of Spain at the hands of Muslim barbarians who depopulate lands and destroy cities, yet it also suggests that the Muslim victory was God’s will to punish Visigothic sins. Unlike the Chronica gothorum pseudo-isidoriana, the Historia silense does not end with the Muslim conquest but continues, nar- rating Pelagius’ victory over the Chaldeans and the Reconquest activity of many Asturian-Leonese-Castilian monarchs. As Xenia Bonch-Bruevich argues, this chronicle refl ects the political instability and internecine strife [230] 386 D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 that collapsed distinctions between allies and enemies; not only were Christian kings fi ghting fellow Christians, they often allied with Andalu- sians to obtain their goals (179-188). Such instability helps explain why the Julián fi gure found its way into Hispano-Latin chronicles in the early twelfth century. Its introduction is due in part to the increasing infl uence of Arabic historiography on the Hispano-Latin chronicles thanks to Mozarabic migration north, fl eeing the Almoravids and the Almohads; it also refl ects changes in the border between Christian and Muslim realms.15 Generally, narratives of the Mus- lim expansion in Hispano-Latin historiography represent the Strait as a border between Hispania and Africa and treat the Muslims in the Penin- sula as an alien, hostile presence. Th is view constructs the Strait as a natural border that should separate not just two territories but also two religions, two cultures, two political systems. Th is view is particularly supported by the Vuittiza story in the Crónica de Alfonso III, which emphasizes the impi- ous viciousness of Vuittiza and his sons, casts the Muslim invasion as divine punishment for Visigothic sins and supports the Pelagius myth of legiti- mate continuity of the Visigothic monarchy in Asturias. Th is myth becomes less useful after Alfonso VI captures Toledo in 1085 and changes the balance of power within the Peninsula, thereby altering the relations between Muslim and Christian realms. Introducing the Julián story inter- twined with that of Witiza’s sons highlights the political confl icts that led to the Muslim triumph. Emphasizing the political over the moral could help integrate formerly Muslim territories into the Christian hegemony by making them less a sign of sin and more a sign of political change. Th e Almohad threat may also have made Andalusians less unwelcome, as Christians and Andalusians fought a common African enemy. While both the Chronica pseudo-isidoriana and the Historia silense certainly promote a negative view of the Muslim presence in the Peninsula, nonetheless the fragmentation of Muslim rule and the expansion of Christian territory enhanced Christian confi dence, enabling twelfth-century chroniclers to adopt a less hostile stance toward Andalusians. Th is stance is articulated through the chronicles’ introduction of the Julián fi gure, which reduced the role played by the sons of Witiza and de-emphasized the Pelagius myth. Th is more accepting stance toward the Muslim presence in the Penin- sula changes radically with Lucas de Tuy’s Chronicon mundi (1236-1242).

15 See the modern editors’ comments in the introductions to the Historia silense (28-32) and the Crónica pseudo-isidoriana (11-100) for a discussion of their Arabic sources. D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 387 [231]

While his account repeats much of the Historia silense version, Lucas expands the role played by Iulianus, making him an ingenious strategist and rhetorician who convinces Rodericus to seize all arms and warhorses and send them north to Gaul and south to Africa to avoid confl ict within Yspania, while simultaneously urging the Franks and Saracens to attack from both fronts (219-222). Th is brilliant strategy expands Iulianus’ border crossing to encompass not only the Strait but also the Pyrenees, the geographical features that mark Visigothic Spain’s geographical limits. Suggestively, Lucas’ treatment of the northern and southern borders of Yspania refl ects that of Isidore of Seville in his Etymologiae (292). As A. H. Merrills shows, for Isidore, Hispania included Tingitania as the sixth province; however, Isidore did not consider Septimania, a region under Visigothic dominion north of the Pyrenees, a province of Hispania (202- 204). Isidore seems to treat mountain ranges as more signifi cant natural borders than the Strait, which he views as a bridge between the Peninsula and Tingitania. In Lucas’ Chronicon, Iulianus crosses both the Strait and the Pyrenees with ease, a mobility made diabolical as it also enables African barbarians to enter and conquer Yspania despite Rodericus’ heroic resistance. I would suggest that Lucas’ Iulianus refl ects the chronicler’s desire to separate defi nitively Spain from Africa, as he casts the full blame for the African presence in the Peninsula on Iulianus. Lucas’ chronicle coincided with the capture of Córdoba in 1236, the former capital of Umayyad al- Andalus; the swift advances in the Reconquest made the complete eradica- tion of Muslim rule in Spain a realistic goal (Tolan 180-182). Lucas’ desire to construct impermeable discursive borders to separate what had been conjoined refl ects his vision of an ideal future of Christian hegemony in a restored Spain.16 In summary, in both the Arabic and Hispano-Latin medieval historiographic traditions, the Julián fi gure is a border-crosser who collapses boundaries and who controls an in-between space, the Strait that divides the Maghreb from al-Andalus, Africa from Spain. Th e valence of his border crossing varies greatly in the two traditions, positive in the Arabic, negative in the Hispano-Latin. In both he is an anomalous fi gure who resists integration in either hegemony. In the Arabic tradition, he functions as a helper who allies with Ṭāriq and provides him with the means of transportation to enter al-Andalus, then soon disappears from the narrative. In the Hispano-Latin tradition he is an enemy who tries to destroy the

16 I take the phrase “discursive borders” from Bonch-Bruevich. [232] 388 D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390

Visigothic-Christian hegemony in pursuit of a private vengeance. Th ese general tendencies are nuanced in the individual treatments, refl ecting the changing socio-political conditions and relations between al-Andalus and the Middle East, or between Asturias-León-Castile and al-Andalus. Th e construction of Julián in the Hispano-Latin chronicles became increasingly negative in the late medieval period, following Lucas de Tuy’s version. Although the question of who bore the most guilt for the Muslim presence in Spain generated diff erent answers, in the medieval Hispano- Latin and Castilian chronicles written between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries, the guilty party is overwhelmingly identifi ed as Julián. Th is tradition continues to the present, as in the work of Pedro Chalmeta, discussed above. Although Juan Goytisolo tried to recuperate the Julián fi gure, the cumulative force of its construction since the late medieval chronicles has made it, I would suggest, irrecuperable as a symbol of the Muslim presence in Spain. Goytisolo presents the count Don Julián as an emblem of the Muslim-African infl uence on Spanish culture, parodying Francoist attempts to erase Arab traces from a purifi ed Spain. His Julián is the ideal border-crosser and justifi ed traitor whose daily activities and fantasies overturn Francoist ideology; however, he replicates the fascist targeting of the most vulnerable members of society—women and children—indulg- ing in sadistic fantasies that reveal to what extent his Julián is a fully subjected subject, inescapably formed by the dictatorship’s nationalist propaganda, despite his attempts to liberate himself from the discourses that shaped him.17 My approach here is an attempt to undercut nationalist uses of the Julián fi gure by contextualizing it in the larger issues of regional identity and relations with other territories, cultures and religions. As I have shown, while the Julián fi gure does acquire a marked ideological function in both Arabic and Latin historiography, nonetheless the local signifi cance of this fi gure constantly changed to serve the immediate needs and the vision of reality that each writer wished to promote.

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17 For a critique similar to mine, see Epps. D. K. Filios / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 375-390 389 [233]

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Churches Made Fit for a King: Alfonso X and Meaning in the Religious Architecture of Post-Conquest Seville

Danya Crites School of Art and Art History, University of Iowa, Iowa City, IA 52242, USA e-mail: [email protected]

Abstract While interpretations of the visual language of medieval Iberian architecture are often confi ned to the ways in which it refl ects the multicultural society of the Peninsula, this essay moves beyond such readings by examining how, after the Castilian conquest of Seville, Alfonso X expressed his political ambitions, both toward the Peninsula and in the greater context of Christian Europe, through the religious architecture of that city. Th is study proposes that Alfonso sought to establish Christian authority in the newly conquered city and transform it into a preeminent cosmopolitan capital by appropriating its Great Mosque as Seville’s cathedral and royal pantheon and by erecting primarily Gothic structures over the neighborhood mosques that had been converted into the city’s parish churches. Th e French Gothic features of these parish churches in particular signifi ed the new Christian regime and Alfonso’s connections to the French monarchy.

Keywords Seville, Burgos, Alfonso X of Castile, Great Mosque, church architecture, Mudejar, Gothic

For nearly 800 years, medieval Iberian society distinguished itself from that of northern Europe due to the cultural commixture of the three monotheistic religions: Christianity, Judaism and Islam. As a result, interpreting the meaning of the architecture produced during this prolonged period of cultural contact is often conﬁ ned to the cross-cultural relations contained within Iberian society. Th is is particularly true of the monuments traditionally categorized as Mudejar—buildings of Christian or Jew- ish patronage with features largely associated with Islamic construction.1

1 Th e deﬁ nition and even the use of the term Mudejar as an artistic category has been

While these monuments certainly refl ect the complexities of the multicultural society that produced them, it is important to consider their signifi - cance beyond the Peninsula. Medieval Iberia may have been distinct from its northern neighbors in its cultural diversity, but its Christian rulers were still very much a part of the larger European political milieu. Th is is perhaps most apparent in the case of Alfonso X of Castile, who in addition to striving to create a Spanish empire, pursued the title of Holy Roman Emperor. Alfonso expressed his political ambitions in much of his literary and artistic patronage, as did other royal patrons of the thirteenth century, including the infl uential rulers Emperor Frederick II and Louis IX.2 In this essay I will examine the specifi c case of Alfonso’s architectural patronage in the city of Seville, arguing that he deliberately employed the city’s cathedral and “Mudejar” parish churches to assert Castilian sovereignty on two distinct levels: fi rst, to establish a Christian presence in a city where sustained Castilian control was far from certain and, second, to transform Seville into a new capital worthy of a kingdom striving for pre- eminence within the greater sphere of Christian Europe.3 Th e symbolic value that Alfonso attached to architectural forms is apparent in his preservation and transformation of the city’s Great Mosque into a royal pan- debated by scholars ever since it was fi rst applied in the nineteenth century to a seemingly Islamicizing strain of late medieval Spanish art. A concise and up-to-date historiography on the topic can be found in Dodds, Menocal and Balbale (323-329). 2 On Alfonso’s literary and artistic patronage, see O’Callaghan (Alfonso X and the “Can- tigas de Santa María” and Th e Learned King [esp. Chapter 9]) and Cómez Ramos (Las empresas artísticas de Alfonso X el Sabio). For discussions of his patronage in relation to that of his contemporaries, see Burns (“Th e Signifi cance of the Frontier in the Middle Ages” and “Stupor Mundi: Alfonso X of Castile, the Learned”), as well as Kosmer and Powers. While general comparisons can be made between the patronage of Alfonso and that of Frederick II and Louis IX, the architectural patronage of Charles of Anjou in Sicily provides a particularly close parallel to Alfonso’s patronage of churches in Seville. Caroline Bruzelius claims that the Angevin ruler (who was Alfonso’s contemporary) sought to expand his power in the eastern Mediterranean by commissioning French Gothic churches that both emphasized his prestigious Capetian heritage and established the new French authority in recently conquered territories (Chapter 1). (Special thanks to Connie Berman for referring me to Bruzelius’ work on Charles.) Th is essay will argue that Alfonso also used French Gothic forms to allude to his familial connections to the French monarchy and to signify regime change in the city. 3 Although the Seville churches that are the focus of this study have prominent Gothic facades and sanctuaries, as will be discussed below, they have traditionally been categorized as Mudejar because of the infl uence of Andalusian precedents on their towers, centrally- planned chapels and some of their ornament. D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 393 [237] theon, which he imbued with imperial imagery, and his campaign to replace or signifi cantly modify many of the neighborhood mosques that initially served as the city’s parish churches with predominantly Gothic structures.4 In general, the Gothic elements of these earliest parish churches, as opposed to the mosques that they replaced, announced the new Chris- tian authority in the city since the Gothic style was closely associated with Christian Europe.5 More specifi cally, the imported French Gothic forms reinforced Alfonso X’s imperial ambitions through their quotations of architectural features seen at the royal convent and pantheon of Las Huel- gas in Burgos, a monument that through its patronage and architecture signifi ed the Castilian monarchy and its ties to the Plantagenet rulers of France. In examining the meaning of Seville’s early religious architecture, it is appropriate to begin with its Great Mosque, since no other structure had greater symbolic signifi cance in the city after its Christian conquest. Fer- nando III transformed the mosque into the city’s cathedral on December 22, 1248, the 185th anniversary of the removal of the remains of San Isidoro from Muslim Seville to Christian León (Alfonso X 2: 767, 769). Fernan- do’s appropriation of Seville’s Great Mosque followed a long-standing Ibe- rian tradition of triumphantly converting congregational mosques into cathedrals upon the Christian conquest of an Islamic city.6 Unlike most of Seville’s neighborhood mosques, its congregational mosque was largely

4 Th ere is some debate over whether mosques were reused for Seville’s parish churches, but Ecker has convincingly argued that these churches were founded over mosques (“From Masjid to Casa-Mezquita” 135-43; “How to Administer” 48-49). 5 Nicola Coldstream makes the basic point that Gothic fi rst fl ourished in the realm of church architecture, and it eventually spread across a territory whose boundaries almost perfectly match those of Latin Christendom, even infi ltrating occupied territories like Cyprus. While she is careful to note that European late medieval architecture involved far more than just Gothic church construction, she makes clear that elite buildings like palaces and places of worship were the ones most likely to be built in the imported European mode rather than in the local vernacular. 6 On the various reasons for the conversions of mosques into churches, see Orlandis; Buresi; Harris, “Mosque to Church”; O’Callaghan, Reconquest and Crusade (204-06); and Remensnyder, “Colonization of Sacred Architecture.” Remensnyder’s comments are particularly pertinent to the conversion of Seville’s congregational mosque. She argues that a large number of the converted mosques were dedicated to the Virgin, at least in part, because of her role as patron of the Reconquest. She further points out that Alfonso X identifi ed the Virgin in this role in his Cantigas (“Colonization of Sacred Architecture” 202-205). [238] 394 D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 maintained until the fi fteenth century, when it was replaced by the Gothic cathedral.7 While replacing the mosque with a Gothic cathedral would have been a challenging, if not impossible, undertaking during the thirteenth century due to economic constraints, the mosque’s preservation for such a long period of time was not the result of pure practicality. Th e mosque’s minaret, now known as the Giralda, was an especially prominent beacon of victory for both Muslim and Christian rulers (see Figure 1).8 Th e tower was fi nished in 1198 when the caliph al-Mansūṛ commissioned its large fi nial (yamur), consisting of four bronze balls, in honor of his victory over Alfonso VIII of Castile at Alarcos four years earlier. According to the Primera crónica, Fernando III had his standards raised over the minaret on the day that the Muslims surrendered Seville to the Christians (Alfonso X 2: 767). A fourteenth-century addendum to Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada’s history of Spain further records that after the Christians entered Seville, the city’s Muslims begged Alfonso for permission to tear down the mosque and the Giralda, but he refused, threatening death to any Muslim who would remove even one brick from the edifi ce.9 Th ough the veracity of this anecdote cannot be confi rmed, it does coincide with Alfonso’s admiration of the Giralda as recorded in the Primera crónica (Alfonso X 2: 768-769). More importantly, through the description of the Muslim population’s lack of control over one of their important cultural symbols, the text shows Seville’s complete subjugation to the Christians. Th erefore, Alfonso’s denial of their request was an act of dominance, and not simply the result of his appreciation of the minaret, as others have suggested (Cómez Ramos, Arquitectura alfonsí 2; Morales 93). Th rough Fer- nando’s and Alfonso’s appropriation of the Giralda and the mosque, above

7 One neighborhood mosque that was preserved even longer than the Great Mosque was the former congregational mosque under the Umayyads that was converted into Seville’s collegiate church. Th e preservation of this mosque further conﬁ rms the power that the Christian rulers associated with the appropriation of important Islamic structures. 8 Discussions of the conversion of minarets, including the Giralda, to Christian bell towers as triumphal symbols can be found in Bloom 361; Asgar Alibhai 154-155; and Har- ris, “Mosque to Church” 160. 9 Th e addendum is found in: Chronica de España por el Arzobispo don Rodrigo Ximénez continuada desde el año 1243 en que la dejó hasta el de 1395 cuya continuación está incompleta como manﬁ esta la última foxa, housed in the Biblioteca Capitular y Colombina, ms 83-7- 21, fol. 255. It is referenced by Morales (105). Th is account of Alfonso and the Muslims of Seville is often repeated though rarely cited in literature on the Giralda. D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 395 [239]

Figure 1. Seville Cathedral, Giralda. Photo by author. [240] 396 D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 all, they became symbols of Christian triumph not unlike Muslim luxury items taken in battle and placed in Christian churches as trophies.10 Alfonso’s and his father’s use of the power of appropriation is even more apparent in their conversion of the Great Mosque of Córdoba, an extraordinary sanctuary built during the height of the Umayyad Caliphate. By the thirteenth century, the Great Mosque had become a key emblem of the struggle between Christian and Muslim Spain (Dodds, “Th e Great Mosque” 17-18, 24). Fashioned from the bells of Santiago de Compostela that were taken when the building was burned by al-Mansūṛ in 997, its lamps were particularly potent signiﬁ ers of Muslim hegemony. After Fernando III’s conquest of Córdoba, in a highly symbolic act, he forced Muslim prisoners to carry the bells back to Santiago (Alfonso X 2: 734). An anecdote from the contemporary Latin Chronicle of the Kings of Castile, also known as the Crónica latina, demonstrates that the Muslim residents of Córdoba were well aware of the symbolic value of the mosque. Accord- ing to the anecdote, they threatened to demolish the mosque if Fernando did not accept their terms of surrender (O’Callaghan, Latin Chronicle 140- 141).11 Th e reaction of Córdoba’s Muslims to the seizure of their Great Mosque, as told in the thirteenth-century Crónica latina, is similar to the account from the following century, cited above, of Seville’s Muslims, who wanted to destroy their beloved mosque and minaret rather than see it turned over to Christian hands. Th ese Christian depictions of Muslims are bound to be biased, but even if they exaggerate the reactions of the conquered Muslims of Córdoba and Seville, they do record the Christian perception that appropriating such monuments, rather than allowing them to be destroyed, was an act of dominance. Whereas the conversion of the Great Mosques of Córdoba and Seville symbolized Christian hegemony in general, Alfonso X’s treatment of the Great Mosque at Seville also represented his family’s particular pretensions to imperial status. Several thirteenth-century texts, whose authors include

10 For several examples of such appropriations, see Harris (“Muslim Ivories” ); Shalem; Dodds (“Islam, Christianity and the Problem of Religious Art” 32-35); and Ruiz Souza (“Botín de guerra”). Ruiz Souza makes the important distinction that not all Muslim items in churches can automatically be interpreted as symbols of victory, but he mentions several examples that undoubtedly functioned in this manner including a yamur taken after the conquest of Granada (“Botín de guerra” 37). 11 Ecker cites this passage as evidence of the Castilian admiration of the mosque (“Th e Great Mosque of Córdoba” 120). In this article she also provides a detailed description of the construction and the restoration carried out at the mosque under Alfonso X (118-126). D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 397 [241]

Fernando’s close advisor Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada and his son Alfonso, indicate that he wished to be known as the emperor of all of Spain, rather than just king of Castile-León. Th e idea of a Spanish empire dated back to the tenth century with the kings of León, who thought it was their duty to conquer the entire Peninsula, as it had been under the Visigoths (O’Callaghan, Th e Learned King 147-148). Aware of this legacy and eager to further his own imperial goals both within Spain and beyond, Alfonso planned to make Seville’s Great Mosque the new royal funerary church, replacing that of Las Huelgas in Burgos. After Fernando’s death in 1252, Alfonso buried his father in front of the main altar of the cathedral. Th e next day, he was proclaimed king and knighted in a ceremony during which he was hoisted above his father’s tomb in front of an audience of nobles. Sometime during the 1260s Alfonso rearranged the internal orga- nization of the cathedral, creating a prominent capilla real (Laguna Paúl 241). After moving the body of his mother Beatrice of Swabia from Las Huelgas to Seville in 1279, Alfonso arranged for a series of elaborate funerary sculptures for his parents, and likely for himself, to be placed in the capilla real.12 Th ough only fragments of these sculptures survive today, their appearance is known through medieval descriptions (Martínez de Aguirre Aldaz 113; Laguna Paúl 244-245; O’Callaghan, Cantigas 50-55; Remensnyder, “Marian Monarchy” 253-254). Th e sculptures consisted of life-like portraits of the three monarchs, made of precious metals and stones, adorned in Andalusian textiles and seated on thrones above their caskets. A statue of the Virgin and the Christ Child also accompanied the fi gures, signifying, as Amy Remensnyder has suggested, Alfonso’s belief that earthly rulers were the vicarios de Dios (“Marian Monarchy” 258-259).13 Although the materials that comprised the sculptures were of Iberian manufacture, the inclusion of fi gures seated on thrones under tabernacles deviated from the typical reclining effi gies used in Castile and León or the stone caskets

12 Alfonso did not specifi cally dictate arrangements for his tomb, but he probably intended for it to be incorporated with that of his parents (Remensnyder, “Marian Monar- chy” 253-254). 13 According to Remensnyder, Alfonso’s devotion to Mary was not only the result of his view of her as the divine counterpart to earthly rulers, but also because of his desire to be Holy Roman Emperor and to honor the Virgin through his military campaigns against the Muslims. Like earlier Holy Roman Emperors, he founded a military order (that of Santa María de España) dedicated to the Virgin, and the purpose of the order was to conquer Muslims in the name of Christianity (“Marian Monarchy” 262-263). [242] 398 D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 of Castilian royalty found at Las Huelgas (Laguna Paúl 245; Sánchez Amei- jeiras, “La fortuna sevillana” 262). Rocio Sánchez Ameijeiras has argued that Alfonso sought less traditional models for his funerary sculptures to create an imperial image of his dynasty and to promote the proposed sainthood of his father (“La fortuna sevillana” 263-264). Sources suggested for these unusual effi gies range from illuminated Spanish royal portraits to earlier German tombs of Holy Roman Emperors (Martínez de Aguirre Aldaz 120; Laguna Paúl 245-246), but Sánchez Ameijeiras draws the most direct connection to that of the legendary enthroned cadaver of the Cid, which, according to the Primera crónica, sat perfectly preserved under a tabernacle for ten years before it was placed in a sarcophagus (Alfonso X 2: 640-643). She explains that this image of the Cid likely stemmed from Otto III’s description of the seated effi gy of Charlemagne, which was also probably known to Alfonso. By evoking the Cid and Charlemagne through the enthroned effi gy of his father, Alfonso emphasized Fernando’s identity as a Christian conqueror and would-be emperor (“La fortuna sevillana” 262-264). Also indicative of Alfonso’s promotion of the image of his father as conqueror/emperor is the surviving laudatory inscription written in Latin, Castilian, Arabic and Hebrew that was placed on Fernando’s casket. Th e inscription describes him as he “who conquered all of Spain.”14 Th e inclusion of Castilian, Arabic and Hebrew showed that Fernando was ruler over all three religious groups of Castile-León, and the addition of Latin connects him to the greater Christian empire of Europe, perhaps a sign that Alfonso had still not completely given up hope of becoming Holy Roman Emperor after his rejection by the pope in 1275. Th ese luxurious sepulchers were intended to convey power and authority by combining the royal and imperial iconography of European models with the lavishness of Andalusian ornament, suggesting that Alfonso believed a Spanish empire was still within his grasp. Alfonso’s likely commission of an iconographical program painted on the piers fl anking the main aisle of the converted mosque also attests to his imperial ambitions. Th is program included an image of Saint Helena followed by a representation of Fernando III, connecting him with the Christian Emperor Constantine (Laguna Paúl 242). By preserving Seville’s Great Mosque instead of replacing it with a Gothic structure and furnishing it with imperial imagery, Alfonso was able to

14 For complete transcriptions and translations of these inscriptions, see Dodds, Meno- cal and Balbale (200-201). D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 399 [243] assert his authority over the local Muslim population, keeping within the tradition of previous conquests while at the same time reinforcing his imperial ambitions. Alfonso converted the city of Seville from the capital of Muslim al-Andalus to a recognizable Christian and cosmopolitan capital of Castile, not only by transforming the Great Mosque but also by constructing a Gothic palace at the Alcázar and by beginning a campaign to erect predominantly Gothic parish churches throughout the city. Although Seville’s nobility contributed to the construction of these churches, Alfonso’s unprec- edented donations to the Church of Seville, the royal heraldry present on the façade portal of the parish church of Santa Lucía, as well as the king’s commissioning of the parish church of Santa Ana in the Sevillian suburb

Figure 2. Santa Ana, nave. Photo by author. [244] 400 D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 of Triana demonstrate that he played the primary role in initiating this campaign.15 Nicknamed the Cathedral of Triana because of its large size, Santa Ana is by far the most ambitious of Seville’s early parish churches (see Figure 2). Alfonso commissioned the church in gratitude to the Virgin for healing an ailment in his eyes, and its construction began sometime between 1276 and 1280.16 Several of Santa Ana’s features are modeled on the church architecture of Burgos: the ridge rib in its vaults; the profi les of its ribs; its plan, consisting of a nave fl anked by two aisles all terminating in polygonal apses; and its surviving medieval portal, ornamented with diamond point and zig-zag patterns in its archivolts, which are enclosed in a gable. Th e placement of polygonal apses at the ends of the nave and the aisles as well as a similar portal format can be seen particularly at Las Huelgas, which was fi nished under Alfonso around the same time (Lambert 158; Cómez Ramos, Las Empresas 97-98; see Figures 3 and 4).17 Santa Ana is unique among Seville’s parish churches in that it was not founded over a mosque and is entirely vaulted. Nonetheless, it provided an important royally- sponsored model for the other parish churches of the city. Santa Ana is also unusual in that it can be precisely dated, which is problematic in the case of the surviving medieval components of Seville’s other parish churches, since many of them have been substantially altered from their original construction. Another diffi culty in dating most of these largely brick churches is their simple design, consisting of a vaulted polygonal apse followed by a nave and two aisles covered with a wooden roof supported by an arcade of pointed arches. Th is design changed little over the course of two centuries. Th e primary clues for dating Seville’s churches lie in their decorative details, heraldry that identifi es their patrons, and a few remaining contemporary documents. Due to the challenges in establishing a chronology for Seville’s churches, it is necessary to provide a fairly detailed analysis of their structure and patronage before an interpretation of these churches can be made.

15 Cómez Ramos attributed this heraldry to Alfonso X (“La portada” 37). 16 A nineteenth-century copy of an earlier medieval inscription no longer extant explains Alfonso’s commissioning of Santa Ana and dates its initial construction to 1276 (Morales Padrón and Babío Walls 1). Ortiz de Zúñiga claimed that the church was begun in 1280 (1: 317-318). 17 Lambert’s theory that masons were imported from Burgos to work on Santa Ana is supported by Ladero Quesada’s ﬁ ndings that a signiﬁ cant fraction of Seville’s population after its Christian conquest came from Burgos (62). D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 401 [245]

Figure 3. Santa Ana, south portal. Photo by author.

Figure 4. Las Huelgas, portal to Knight’s Aisle. Photo by author. [246] 402 D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413

Th e relatively well-preserved parish church of Santa Marina provides an important point of departure for the dating of Seville’s other typical medieval churches, because unlike Santa Ana, Santa Marina follows the standard type described above and because several parts of the church can be securely assigned to the fi rst decades following Seville’s Christian conquest. Heraldic tiles belonging to the infante Don Felipe that were found in one of Santa Marina’s chapels indicate that at least some construction occurred at the church during his tenure as archbishop elect of Seville (1249-1258). Structural evidence and decorative details further confi rm that several other parts of the church date to the thirteenth century. Th e fi rst of these components is its capilla mayor, or sanctuary, which consists of two rectangular bays with quadripartite vaulting divided by a ridge rib and a fi ve- sided vaulted apse, lighted by Gothic windows (see Figure 5). Th is style of vaulting, which is common in many of Seville’s parish churches, including

Figure 5. Santa Marina, capilla mayor interior. Photo by author. D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 403 [247]

Santa Ana, as noted previously, was likely the result of infl uence from Bur- gos church architecture. Diego Angulo Íñiguez, author of the only monograph on all of Seville’s medieval parish churches, claimed in the 1930s that the capilla mayor was a part of the original church because its exterior decoration diff ers from that of Sevillian churches more confi dently dated to the second half of the fourteenth century (33, 35). Angulo’s contemporaries, José Hernández Díaz and Antonio Sancho Corbacho, corroborated his opinion on the date of the capilla mayor by arguing on stylistic grounds that its windows and the corbels supporting the responds of the capilla’s vaulting are pre-1350 (105). Finally, the rolled corbels on the exterior of the apse closely resemble those present on the portals of several Cordoban parish churches dated to the thirteenth or early fourteenth century.18 Th e west façade of Santa Marina is also generally believed to date to the thirteenth century because of the style of its portal (see Figure 6). Th e essentially Gothic stone portal features columnar jambs supporting archivolts that form a pointed arch. It is ornamented with fi gural and geometric sculpture, including diamond point and zig-zag patterns like those on the portals of Santa Ana and Las Huelgas. Th e style of the portal’s sculpture, as well as its likeness to the portal of Santa Ana, suggests that it was constructed by the beginning of the fourteenth century (Angulo Íñiguez 45; Hernández Díaz and Sancho Corbacho 106). In addition to the Santa Marina’s capilla mayor and façade, its bell tower and two of its chapels may also date to the thirteenth century. Various dates have been suggested for the church’s tower, which resembles the city’s Almohad towers, but Rafael Cómez Ramos has convincingly argued that the tower was built at the same time as the rest of the façade (Iglesia de Santa Marina 51-52). Santa Marina’s Capilla de la Piedad and Capilla Santísimo Sacramento likely date to the thirteenth century as well because of heraldic tiles discovered in their foundations. Th e former contained the aforementioned tiles of Don Felipe, while a tomb decorated with tiles displaying what is most likely the heraldry of the Hinestrosa, a thirteenth- century noble family of Seville, was discovered in the latter. Th e basic design of these two chapels consists of a polygonal dome fi tted over a square plan through the use of squinches.19 It is possible that these chapels were partly

18 Th ese corbels can be found on the north portals of Santa María Magdalena and San Pedro in Córdoba. 19 Although these chapels have been modiﬁ ed since their initial construction, they likely retain their original basic form; see Cómez Ramos (La Iglesia de Santa Marina 47-48). [248] 404 D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413

Figure 6. Santa Marina, façade. Photo by author. modeled after local precedents no longer extant, such as the centrally- planned spaces in various Muslim palaces in Seville, including those in the Alcázar, and the domes next to the qibla wall of the Great Mosque that may have covered the sepulchers of Fernando III and Alfonso X (Ruiz Souza, “La planta centralizada” 14-15; Sanchez Ameijeiras, “ ‘Çementerio real’ ” 101). However, like Santa Marina’s vaulting and façade portal, the chapels can also be connected to an important precedent at Las Huelgas. Th e Capilla D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 405 [249] de la Asunción, which was begun at least by Alfonso VIII in the late twelfth or early thirteenth century and possibly fi nished under Alfonso X, also has a centralized plan covered by a polygonal dome.20 Its design is particularly similar to that of the Capilla Santísimo Sacramento at Santa Marina. Both chapels show the infl uence of Almohad structures in that adjacent to their centralized plans are rectangular niches covered by three smaller vaults (Sanchez Ameijeiras, “ ‘Çementerio real’ ” 98-101). Due to their close similarities to Santa Marina as well as other stylistic and documentary evidence, Gothic elements of seven additional churches out of Seville’s original twenty-three parish churches (which do not include Santa Ana) can be fairly securely dated to the second half of the thirteenth or the fi rst decades of the fourteenth century, suggesting an intentional campaign begun by Alfonso X to replace the city’s mosques.21 Th e patronage of a chapel at Santa Marina by Don Felipe indicates that Alfonso X may have enlisted those closest to him to aid in the construction of Seville’s parish churches. His close ally Don Remondo, the fi rst archbishop of

20 Th e various building phases and even original function of this chapel have been debated in the scholarship on Las Huelgas. It seems most likely that the chapel was initially constructed as the polygonal apse of the convent’s provisional church in the late twelfth or early thirteenth century, and that it was later remodeled to its present centralized plan to serve as the funerary chapel of Alfonso VIII and his wife Eleanor; see Palomo Fernández and Ruiz Souza 33. (I would like to thank Jerrilynn Dodds for bringing this source to my attention.) However, the dates of this transformation are still disputed. According to Sanchez Ameijeiras, the centralized plan of the chapel in combination with its Andalusian ornament indicates the patronage of Eleanor and Alfonso, or someone close to the king and queen, because it emulates Castilian and French royal funerary chapels (“ ‘Çementerio real’ ” 95-102). However, Palomo Fernández and Ruiz Souza believe that the chapel was a part of the building campaign carried out under Alfonso X because of similarities in the chapel’s plasterwork to that in other structures at the complex constructed during his reign. Th ey also claim that the chapel could not have been built before the conquest of Córdoba in 1236 because of its similarities with al-Ḥakam’s additions to the Great Mosque of that city, though they themselves undermine this argument by their observation that Christians began to adopt architectural elements from al-Andalus long before they made major conquests in the region (Palomo Fernández and Ruiz Souza 34-35). Based on the evidence presented by these three scholars, it seems most plausible that the current form of the chapel was constructed under Eleanor and Alfonso VIII and that it may have been modiﬁ ed under Alfonso X’s reign. 21 Th ese churches include Santa Marina, San Julián, Santa Lucía, San Lorenzo, San Martín, Omnium Sanctorum, San Isidoro and San Gil. Th eir chronology is discussed in my forthcoming dissertation, “From Mosque to Cathedral: Th e Social and Political Signi- ﬁ cations of Mudejar Architecture in Late Medieval Seville.” [250] 406 D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413

Seville (1259-1286), was also involved in Alfonso’s architectural endeavors. Th e seventeenth-century chronicler Diego Ortiz de Zúñiga claimed that Santa Ana was partially subsidized through indulgences granted by Remondo and several of his successors (Ortiz de Zúñiga 1: 317-318). Remondo also probably patronized the church of San Gil, whose Gothic capilla mayor and brick tower are believed to belong to its initial construction (Angulo Íñiguez 27-29; Hernández Díaz and Sancho Corbacho 67- 70; see Figure 7). No primary documents connect Remondo with San Gil, but Zúñiga recorded that the church was commissioned by the archbishop, who named it for the parish church where he was baptized in his hometown of Segovia (cited in Hernández Díaz and Sancho Corbacho 67). Documentary evidence does support Remondo’s patronage of the church of San Gil in Segovia (Ecker, “From Masjid to Casa-Mezquita” 137). Unfortunately, the medieval structure of this church has been lost, but the Segovian Romanesque churches of San Lorenzo and San Juan de Caballeros resemble San Gil in Seville in their unusual plans, providing further evidence of Remondo’s patronage (Hernández Díaz and Sancho Corbacho 68). Several conclusions can be made based on the discussion of Seville’s parish churches thus far. First, the construction of a signiﬁ cant number of

Figure 7. San Gil, capilla mayor. Photo by author. D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 407 [251]

Seville’s medieval parish churches was begun between 1248 and the early fourteenth century, and much of this construction likely took place under Alfonso X and the nobility closely associated with him. Second, though several aspects of these churches, such as their wooden roofs and brick construction, were likely the result of practical measures, their most prominent features, their Gothic stone portals and vaulting, indicate that economy was not the only factor in determining their design. Th ird, these Gothic features and probably their centrally-planned chapels can be traced to examples at the royal convent of Las Huelgas. One reason for the construction of so many Gothic parish churches in Seville was the new residents’ need to have both physically and symboli- cally Christian strongholds in a city that was continually threatened by Muslim uprisings and invasions during the second half of the thirteenth century. Although Seville’s post-conquest population was large relative to other recently conquered cities, it still did not merit the establishment of twenty-four parishes, the most parishes of any Castilian city (Ladero Quesada 164). Moreover, Seville’s population was substantially smaller than it had been under Almohad control, leaving parts of the city vacant and vulnerable. Given these conditions, Seville’s large number of parishes can be explained, at least in part, by Peter Linehan’s assertion that the thirteenth-century Castilian frontier parish provided social cohesion and security to disparate populations (262-263).22 Th e churches were established not to accommodate large numbers of settlers, but rather to encourage them, by providing social and defensive centers throughout the city. In a similar vein, Cómez Ramos has suggested that Alfonso X may have constructed large parish churches in under-populated regions of the city to

22 Heather Ecker has eff ectively demonstrated that Seville’s parishes were formed by condensing the existing Islamic city’s neighborhoods and that, for the most part, mosques on major streets were selected to serve as parish churches. She implies that the city’s elevated number of parishes was due to its large size in terms of area (“From Masjid to Casa- Mezquita” 131-132; “How to Administer” 48-49). Although Ecker disagrees with Line- han’s theory based on the small size of the city’s population (“How to Administer” 61), his theory does not require a large population. In fact, Robert Burns made a similar point in describing the use of parishes as a colonizing tool in Valencia following its conquest by Jaime I of Aragón in 1238. According to Burns, parishes were formed to establish a Chris- tian presence in recently conquered lands and not to accommodate parishioners. Th us, parishes, complete with churches housed in former mosques, were created even in regions lacking a Christian population (“Th e Signifi cance of the Frontier in the Middle Ages”; Th e Crusader Kingdom of Valencia 54-59). [252] 408 D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 attract settlers for defensive purposes. He further argues that the design of these churches, with their towers, crenellation and small windows, proves their intended defensive function (Cómez Ramos, Iglesia de Santa Marina 18-19, 34). Even if Seville’s many parish churches were never actually used to defend the city from Muslims, they at least served as symbolic fortresses of faith.23 Gothic parish churches, as opposed to mosques, gave settlers a visibly Christian environment for their community’s center.24 Th us, the construction of Gothic parish churches helped Seville’s newly formed Chris- tian community to establish and maintain its authority over the city’s already established Muslim culture. Th rough their predominantly Gothic style, these early parish churches provided emblems of Christianity in a Muslim landscape, but their imported French style was also informed by Alfonso X’s political ambitions, since he had a vested interest in connecting himself with the infl uential Louis IX, the model Christian king of thirteenth-century Europe and cousin of his father Fernando III. Alfonso desired to gain the support of the French king in his bid for the position of Holy Roman Emperor. In 1257, he sent ambassadors to France to win over Louis, and over a decade later, he married his son Fernando de la Cerda to Louis’ daughter Blanche in an elaborate ceremony that caused his nobles to protest over the expense (O’Callaghan, Th e Learned King 200, 214). Alfonso’s employment of masons from the Castilian capital of Burgos to work on the churches of Seville further reaffi rmed his French connection. Th e cathedral and the royal convent of Las Huelgas in Burgos, both of which were also patronized by Alfonso,

23 Th ere is no textual evidence that Seville’s parish churches were used for defensive purposes until the seventeenth century when Ortiz de Zúñiga recorded that they served as garrisons in feuds among the city’s fi fteenth-century nobility (Morales Méndez 60). Bango Torviso has given examples of defensive features, such as towers and crenellation, used on churches for purely symbolic and for functional reasons, though he claimed that by the late Middle Ages, these features were usually functional (59-66). 24 Cómez Ramos has posited that the replacement of mosques with Gothic parish churches was an assertion of Christian authority in the city; see “Das problem der Sevil- laner Sakralarchitektur” 7-8, 14. Burns made the same argument in regards to Valencia (“Th e Signifi cance of the Frontier in the Middle Ages” 326; Th e Crusader Kingdom of Valencia 88-90). Also in a similar vein, Buresi has attributed the replacement of mosques with more “Western” (i.e., Romanesque and Gothic) structures throughout Iberia in the thirteenth century to the desire to eradicate references to the period of Peninsular Muslim hegemony. He briefl y lists several other contributing factors to the erection of these new structures as well, including Alfonso X’s imperial aims (347-349). D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413 409 [253] drew directly from various models associated with the French court (Karge 179-184, 164-165; Cómez Ramos, Empresas 68-69). Las Huelgas was a particularly fi tting model for Seville’s parish churches in conveying Alfonso’s political aims because of its patronage by his crusading great grandfather, who was also his namesake, and his French great grandmother. Th e Cistercian convent was founded in 1180 by Eleanor Plantagenet, grandmother to Louis IX, and Alfonso VIII of Castile, who turned the tide of the Reconquest with his victory over the Almohads at Las Navas de Tolosa in 1212. Th is icon of Castilian monarchy served as both a royal residence and pantheon throughout the late Middle Ages. It also symbolized the union between the French and Castilian royal families through its combination of imported French Gothic and Andalusian architectural elements. Eleanor and Alfonso began construction on both the church, which draws from various monastic foundations of the French monarchy, and the aforementioned Capilla de la Asunción, which served as their burial chapel for a time. According to Sanchez Ameijeiras, the latter was intentionally designed to symbolize this union because it draws from Iberian precedents and centrally-planned chapels in French monastic architecture. She draws a particularly compelling parallel between the Capilla de la Asunción and the chapel of Saint Catherine at the abbey of Fontevrault, the pantheon of the Plantagenet dynasty. Both chapels have a square plan that utilizes squinches to transition to an octagonal ribbed vault, though the arrangements of the ribs at the chapels diff er (Sanchez Ameijeiras, “ ‘Çementerio real’ ” 95-102). Alfonso X, who had a vested interest in reinforcing the connection between the French and Castilian royal houses, actively patronized Las Huelgas, fi nishing its church and cloister as well as constructing at least one of its centrally-planned chapels (Palomo Fernández and Ruiz Souza 24-37).25 By adopting the Gothic features and the centrally-planned chapels of Las Huelgas, Seville’s churches would also evoke Alfonso’s prestigious pedigree and the authority of the Castilian monarchy.

25 Palomo Fernández and Ruiz Souza have made a strong case for Alfonso’s patronage of parts of the church, including its cloister, and the Capilla del Salvador (27-37). For his possible role in constructing the Capilla de la Asuncíon, see Palomo Fernández and Ruiz Souza (note 20 above). Work on the Capilla de Santiago may have begun under Alfonso as well; there are similarities between some of its plasterwork and that of structures at the monastery constructed during Alfonso’s reign, but other aspects of its plasterwork stylistically date to the fourteenth century (Azcárate Ristori 51; Concejo Díez 155-156; Ruiz Souza, “La planta centralizada” 16). [254] 410 D. Crites / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) 391-413

Alfonso’s manipulation of the religious architecture of post-conquest Seville not only reﬂ ected his concerns over hegemony within the Penin- sula, but also revealed his desire to convey his authority throughout Chris- tian Europe. In general, the city’s Great Mosque and famed minaret served as symbols of Christian hegemony over Islam for Alfonso and his father, and Alfonso’s conversion of the Great Mosque into a royal pantheon and a stage for his knighting ceremony more speciﬁ cally promoted his father’s crusading prowess and his own pursuit of imperial status. Alfonso sought further to promote the power and prestige of the Castilian monarchy through the city’s parish churches. Th ese churches asserted Christian authority both through their sheer number and through the destruction or partial replacement of the mosques over which they were founded in favor of largely Gothic structures. Th e prominent Gothic features of these new churches not only made them recognizably Christian in appearance, but also represented Alfonso’s political aims through their emulation of the church architecture of Burgos, particularly that of Las Huelgas. Th e imported French Gothic features of the convent as well as its centrally-planned Capilla de la Asunción evoked the familial ties between the Castilian and French royal families. Th us, the multiple aspects of Alfonso’s authority conveyed through the religious architecture of Seville demonstrate the need to decipher the visual language of medieval Iberian architecture both within its multicultural indigenous environment and a broader socio- political context extending beyond the Peninsula.

References

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INDEX

Aʾazz mā yutlaḅ , or Th e Most Precious Alfonso VII of Castile and León, iv, 111, Quest. See also Ibn Tūmart, 28, 40 118 Abajo Martín, Teresa, 123, 131 Alfonso VIII of Castile, 148, 238, 249, ʿAbbāsid, 5, 6, 219, 226, 227 253 Abboud-Haggar, Soha, 167, 175 Alfonso X, el Sabio, of Castile and León, ʿAbd al-Muʾmin, 23 vii, xiii, xiv, 3, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 19-37, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān I, 155 87, 110, 153, 235-254 ʿAbd al-Raḥmān II, ix, 83, 84, 85, 86, 226 Alfonso, Esperanza, iv, xiv ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III, iv, 155, 201, 227 Alfonso of Valladolid. Also Abner of Abner of Burgos. See Alfonso of Valladolid Burgos, vii, viii, 44, 53, 58-65, 66 Adab, 27 Algeciras, 84, 225, 228 Addas, Claude, 27, 37 ʿAli III of Morocco, iv Adelard of Bath, 4 Ali, Tariq, 154 Adret, Solomon ibn [Adret, Solomon ben Aljama, x, 131 Abraham], vii, viii, 43, 44, 49-65, 66 Aljamiado, 29, 154 Afonso I of Portugal, iv al-ʿAllaoui, Hicham, 26, 37 Aghmāt, 184 ʿAllūn, 83 Agriculture, 27 Almagest. See also Ptolemy, 4, 10 Aguilar de Campoo, ix, x, 105, 106, 138, Almanach Perpetuum. See also Zacut, 14 139, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147 Almansor. See also Heine, 154 Aidi, Hisham, 199, 200, 201, 212, 213, Almanzor. See also al-Mansūr,̣ 156 215 Almería. See also Prefatio de Almaria, 116 Aimeric, Count of Narbonne, 118 Almohad, iv, v, vii, xii, 4, 19-37, 124, 158, Akbari, Suzanne, 156, 161 184, 189, 193, 230, 247, 249, 251, 253 Akhbār Majmūʿa fī fath ̣ al-Andalus, xiii, Almoravid, iv, xii, 4, 19, 20, 158, 159, 205, 220, 227, 232 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188, Álamo, Juan del, 111, 131 189, 190, 193, 194, 196, 230 Albuquerque, Luís, 14, 16 Alonso Álvarez, Raquel, 118, 119, 124, 131 Alcázar, 243, 248 Álvarez de Baquedano, Juan Francisco, Alchemy, 27 135, 149 Alcuin, 113 Álvarez Martínez, María Rosario, 91, 97 Alexandria, 4, 106, 187, 188, 193, 194 Álvarez Palenzuela, Vicente A., 118, 119, Alfonsine Tables, vii, 3, 6, 8, 9, 11, 12, 13, 120, 128, 131, 164, 175 14 dʾAlverny, Marie-Th érèse, 5, 16, 24, 37 Alfonso II of Aragón, 114 Amān, 183, 184, 185, 190, 192 Alfonso IV of Aragón, 87 Andalusia, viii, xi, xii, 78, 129, 181-186, Alfonso VI of Castile and León, v, 113, 188, 189, 192, 193, 199, 210 114, 230 Andreas, Abbot, 123, 124, 128

Andrés, María Soledad de, 134 al-Balawī, 27 Anglès, Higinio, 80, 98 Balbale, Abigail Krasner, 236, 242, 255 Angulo Íñiguez, Diego, 247, 250, 254 Bango Torviso, Isidro G., 252, 254, 256 Anselm, Saint, 46, 66 Banū Ḥ amdīn, 182 ʿArabī Kātibī, Muḥammad ʿIzz al-Dīn, Banū Hilāl, 29 206, 215 Banū Rushd, 182 Aragón, vii, 87, 88, 157, 164, 170 Banū Sulaym, 29 Architecture, xi, xiii, xiv, 235-254 Baptism, 167 Arigita y Lasa, Mariano, 124, 131 Bar Ḥ iyya, Abraham, 8 Arin, 5 Barbour, Nevill, 155, 161 Aristotle, Aristotelian, viii, 19, 21, 27, 33, Barcelona, 8, 50, 57, 106, 157 69, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 78 Bardsley, Sandy, 164, 175 Armengol VI and VII, Counts of Urgel, Barrau-Dihigo, Louis, 114, 131 118, 119, 128 Barton, Simon, 109, 119, 131 Armingot, 119, 128 Bate, Henry of Mechelen/Malines, 9 Arremón Daspa, Guillén, 9 al-Battānī, 4, 6, 8, 11 Art, iii, vi, ix, 44, 45, 52, 90, 160, 236 Baumgarten, Elisheva, 167, 173, 175 Artisan, Divine, 72, 73, 75, 76 al-Bayān waʾl- tahṣ īḷ , xii, 196 Asgar Alibhai, Ali, 238, 254 Bayazid, 211 Ashtor, Eliyahu, 129, 131 Bearman, P. J., 25, 37, 38 Assimilation, ix, xi, 164, 172, 174 Beatrice of Swabia, 30, 241 Astrology, 9, 10, 36 Beattie, Cordelia, 164, 175 Astronomy, vi, vii, 3-16, 27, 36 Beinart, Haim, 166, 167, 173, 175 Asturias, 228, 230, 232 Belasco, George S., 60, 66 Augustine, Augustinian, viii, 51 Bell tower, xiii, 238, 247 Auto de los Reyes Magos, 126, 129 Ben Moses Cohen, Judah, 9 Averroes [Ibn Rushd], viii, xii, 20, 21, 26, Ben Sharah, Jacob. See Ibn Ṭāriq 27, 36, 69-78, 182 Ben Verga, Judah, 13 “Averroesʾ Search.” See “La busca de Ben Waqār, Abraham. See Benthegar Averroes” Ben Yusef. See Yūsuf b. Tāshufīn, 158, 159 Avicenna, 69 Benedictines. See also Monastic orders, Azarquiel, 6, 8, 10, 11 110, 112, 113, 118 Azcárate Ristori, José María, 253, 254 Benthegar, Abraham, 11, 12 Azhār al-Riyād.̣ See also al-Maqqarī, Berber, 19, 22, 23, 28, 29, 83, 152, 154, 203, 217 155, 158, 159, 184, 189, 193, 194, ʿAzim, 159, 160 196, 202, 223 al-Azmeh, Aziz, 204, 215 Berdoues, 118, 120 Aznar, Prime Minister, 212 Berenger de Aguilar, 157 ʿAzzāwī, Aḥmad, 24, 37 Berganza, Francisco de, 104, 131 Bernard, Saint, 118 Babío Walls, Manuel, 244, 256 Bible, 8, 54, 56, 168 Backmund, Norbert, 121, 123, 131 Bidāyat al-mujtahid wa-nihāyat al- Baer, Yitzhak, 58, 59, 61, 66, 129, 131 muqtasiḍ . See also Averroes, 26 Baghdad, vii, 3, 4, 5, 7, 16, 84, 86, 187, al-Bitrūjī,̣ 27, 36 204, 227 Blanca, Princess, 88 Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii iii

Blanche, of Castile, 252 Burzulī, Abū al-Qāsim ibn Aḥmad, 181, Bloom, Jonathon, 238, 254 184, 190, 191, 192, 197 Blumenthal, Debra, 165, 175 “La busca de Averroes” (“Averroesʾ Search”). Bonch-Bruevich, Xenia, 221, 229, 231, 233 See also Borges, 154 Bonner, Anthony, 45, 66, 67 Bonner, Michael, 224, 233 Cabreros, Treaty of, 105, 129 Book of the Decisive Treatise. See Fasḷ Cairo, 86 al-Maqāl. See also Averroes Calatrava, 112, 120, 124, 125, 126, 148, Book of the Fixed Stars. See also 149 Alfonso X, 9 Calatrava, Order of. See also Monastic Book of Genealogies. See also Zacut, 11 orders, 112, 118, 120, 124, 125, 126, Book of the Lover. See also Llull, 55, 67 129, 149 Booty, 155, 186 Caliph, caliphate, iii, iv, vii, xii, 6, 19, 21, Border, iii, v, vi, ix, xi, xiii, xiv, 124, 153, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29, 30, 36, 91, 183, 186, 219, 220, 222, 224, 225, 155, 193, 201, 210, 226, 227, 238, 240 227, 229, 230, 231 Campanini, Massimo, 70, 79 Border-crosser, v, xiii, 219, 222, 229, 231, Canellas López, A., 126, 132 232 Cantar de Mio Cid. See Poema de Mio Cid Borges, Jorge Luis, 154 Canteins, Jean, 27, 38 Bosch Vilá, Jacinto, 20, 38 Cantera, Enrique, 166, 169, 170, 175 Botany, 27 Cantera Burgos, Francisco, 15, 16, 134, Boundary, iii, iv, vi, vii, viii, ix, xi, xiv, 44, 138, 165, 175 70, 90, 97, 109, 130, 169, 174, 204, Cantigas de Santa María. See also 225, 227, 231, 237 Alfonso X, 31, 80, 96, 237 Brann, Ross, ix, x Capilla, 247 Bresslau, Harry, 105, 132 Capilla de la Asunción, 248-249, 253, 254 Brett, Michael, 23, 38, 154, 157, 161 Capilla de la Piedad, 247 Briviesca, 88 Capilla del Salvador, 253 Brunel, Clovis F., 117, 118, 132 Capilla de Santiago, 253 Brunschvig, Robert, 184, 197 Capilla mayor, 246, 247, 250 Bruzelius, Caroline, 236, 255 Capilla real, 241 Bughyat al-Multamis fī Tārīkh Rijāl Ahl Capilla Santisímo Sacramento, 247, 249 al-Andalus. See also al-Ḍabbī, 203, 215 Captivity, captives, xi, 83, 158, 182, 183, Bulliet, Richard W., 36, 38 185, 190, 193, 194, 195, 196 Bulst-Th iele, Marie Luise, 118, 132 Cárdenas, Anthony J., 31, 34, 35, 38 al-Būnī, Aḥmad ibn, 27, 38 Carolus-Barré, Louis, 119, 132 Buresi, Pascal, 26, 37, 237, 252, 255 Carrete Parrondo, Carlos, 165, 166, 167, Burgos, x, 105, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 170, 171, 172, 173, 175 114, 115, 118, 120, 121, 126, 128, Carrión, 113, 122, 123, 124 129, 130, 150, 156, 237, 241, 244, Castile, ix, x, 13, 58, 87, 88, 103, 104, 247, 252, 254 105, 109, 110, 111, 116, 117, 118, Burnett, Charles, 69, 78 119, 120, 129, 130, 153, 156, 157, Burns, Robert I., 20, 38, 42, 106, 132, 159, 164, 182, 232, 241, 242 236, 252, 255, 256 Catalan, 7, 44, 45, 108, 109, 117, 118, Burshatin, Israel, 159, 161 129 iv Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii

Catalonia, vii, 57, 87, 88, 117, 118, 120, 157 Cluny, Order, 113, 114, 116, 122 Ceuta, 187, 206, 225, 228 Codera y Zaidín, Francisco, 20, 38 Chabás, José, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, Cohen, Jeremy, 50, 66 16-17 Cohen, Mark R., iv, xiv Chalmeta Gendrón, Pedro, 220, 233 Coldstream, Nicola, 237, 255 Chancery, x, 105, 110, 117, 119, 125, Cole, Peter, 200, 215 126, 129, 130 Collins, Roger, 220, 225, 233 Charlemagne, 242 Colón, Germà, 117, 132 Charles of Anjou, 236 Cómez Ramos, Rafael, 238, 244, 247, Chazan, Robert, 50, 66 251, 252, 253, 255 Childbirth, 173 Commentary on the Legends of the Talmud. Chodkiewicz, Michel, 27, 38 See also Adret, 57 Christian, iii, iv, v, vi, vii, viii, ix, x, xi, xii, Concejo Díez, María Luisa, 253, 255 xiii, xiv, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 11, 15, 16, 20, Conﬁ scation, 188 21, 30, 31, 32, 36, 43, 44, 45, 46, 49, Conrad, Lawrence L., 28, 38 50, 51, 52, 53, 58, 59, 60, 61, 65, 69, Constantinople, 205 70, 78, 80, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, Contact, iii, iv, v, vi, viii, ix, xi, xiv, 36, 57, 90, 91, 92, 94, 96, 97, 103, 104, 106, 82, 85, 86, 88, 90, 97, 120, 171, 172, 107, 108, 130, 138, 151, 152, 153, 173, 174, 181, 235 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, Contract, 106, 107, 108, 116, 119, 120, 163, 165, 166, 169, 170, 171, 172, 121, 125, 129, 138, 164 173, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, Conversion, convert, iv, viii, 43, 50, 58, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 59, 60, 64, 65, 82, 85, 86, 94, 152, 195, 196, 205, 206, 207, 219, 221, 166, 167, 170, 171, 173, 174, 188, 222, 223, 224, 227, 229, 230, 231. 199, 206, 209 232, 235, 236, 237, 238, 240, 242, Converso, 166, 167, 170, 171, 172 246, 249, 251, 252, 254 Convivencia, v, 214 Christianity, vii, viii, 43, 44, 45, 58, 59, Cook, cooking, 166, 168, 172, 173 65, 86, 167, 170, 174, 189, 222, 235, Cook, Michael, 208, 215 241, 252 Corbel, 247 Chronica Adefonsi Imperatoris, 117, 132 Córdoba, iv, xii, 7, 70, 83, 84, 85, 86, 94, Chronica gothorum pseudo-isidoriana, xiii, 95, 96, 161, 182, 183, 184, 185, 187, 220, 222, 228, 229, 233 196, 227, 231, 240, 247, 249 Chronicle of 754. See Crónica mozárabe de Corredera Gutiérrez, Eduardo, 119, 132 754 Correia, Gaspar, 13, 14 Chronicle of Nájera. See Crónica najerense Cortés, Hernando, 89 Chronicon mundi. See also Lucas, Bishop Costa, Avelino de Jesus da, 105, 120, 132 of Tuy, xiii, 220, 230, 231 Couderc, Camille, 117, 132 Churches, parish, xiii, 88, 104, 114, 124, Crites, Danya, xiii, xiv 125, 128, 129, 172, 188, 235-254 Crone, Patricia, 23, 38 Cid. See Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar Crónica abreviada. See also Manuel, Cîteaux, Order of, Cistercians. See also Juan, 30 Monastic orders, ix, x, 111, 112, 117, Crónica de Alfonso III, xiii, 220, 228, 230, 118, 120, 124, 126, 128, 129, 253 233 Cities of Light: Th e Rise and Fall of Islamic Crónica general 1344, 35 Spain, iii, xiv Crónica latina, 240, 257 Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii v

Crónica mozárabe de 754, xiii, 155, 220, Drayson, Elizabeth, 221, 233 221, 227, 233 Duʿāt, 24 Crónica najerense, 155, 220 Duby, Georges, 33, 38 Crónica de los reyes de Castilla. See also Loaysa, 31, 40 Ecker, Heather, 237, 240, 250, 251, Customs (cultural, religious), x, xiv, 88, 255-256 165-174 Education, 27, 28, 34, 165 Egypt, 29, 85, 91, 205, 206, 208, 213 al-Ḍabbī, Aḥmad ibn Yaḥyā Ibn ʿUmayrah, Ein sof. See also Infi nite, 44 203, 215 Eleanor, Queen of Castile, 118, 249 Dacre, Charlotte, 154 Eleanor of Aquitaine, 118 Damascus, 84, 86, 206, 210 Eleanor Plantagenet, 253 Dār al-ḥarb, 195, 224 Elger, Ralf, 205, 208, 210, 215 Dār al-Islām, viii, 186, 189, 192, 224, Elohim, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 61, 62, 63, 64 226, 227 End of time, xiii, 23, 203-204, 208 De acquisitione Terrae Sanctae. See also Enrique, Prince of Castile, 88 Llull, 65, 67 Epps, Brad, 232, 233 De-Almohadization, 29 Escaladieu, 118 Th e Death and Life of Miguel de Cervantes. Eschatology, 23, 199, 207, 208, 209, 210 See also Marlowe, 154 Espéculo. See also Alfonso X, 30, 33 Decter, Johnathan, 206, 210, 215 La Espina, 118 Defourneaux, Marcelin, 109, 118, 132 Estepa, Carlos, 30, 38 Descripción anónima de al-Andalus. See Etymologiae. See also Isidore of Seville, 231 Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus Expositio. See also John of Murs, 12 Deuteronomy, 51, 52, 62, 63 Expulsion, 13, 16 Dhikr Bilād al-Andalus [Una descripción Extremadura, 13 anónima de al-Andalus], xii, 203, 206, 208, 209, 215 Fadạ̄ ʾil, 204, 209 Dhimmī, iv, 182, 185 Fadạ̄ ʾil al-Andalus, 205, 206, 208 Diamond, Jeff , 62, 66 al-Fārābī, 69 Dignities, Divine Attributes, 44, 45, 46, Farmer, Henry George, 80, 97, 98 47, 48, 49, 53, 55, 56 Fasḷ al-Maqāl, or Book of the Distinction Dillard, Heath, 164, 175 of Discourse and the Establishment of the Disputa del Alma y el Cuerpo, 129 Relation of Religious Law and Philosophy. Disputatio fi dei et intellectus. See also Llull, See also Averroes, viii, 69, 70-76, 78 65, 67 Fatḥ al-Andalus [La conquista de Divine Being, 44 al-Andalus], 202, 205, 215 al-Djazūlī, 29 Fatimid caliphate, 23, 25, 209 Dodds, Jerrilynn D., 17, 236, 240, 242, Fatwā. See also Law, viii, xii, 182, 184, 249, 255 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, Domestic space, x, 165-169, 170, 171 192, 193, 194, 195, 196 Domestic tasks, roles, 163, 170 Ferhat, Halima, 184, 197 Domingo Gundisalvi, 69 Fernández Conde, Francisco Javier, 164, Domínguez Rodríguez, Ana, 36, 38 175 Dossat, Yves, 130, 132 Fernández Manzano, Reynaldo, 90, 95, 98 Dozy, Reinhert, 223, 233 Fernández-Ordóñez, Inés, 33, 38 vi Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii

Fernando III of Castile and León, xiii, 10, García, Constantino 134 30, 31, 34, 128, 130, 238, 240, 242, García-Arenal, Mercedes, 23, 39, 164, 248, 252 168, 176 Fernando de la Cerda, 252 García-Fitz, Francisco, 26, 39 Festivities (cultural, religious), xi, 165, García Gómez, Emilio, 154, 161, 202, 216 167, 169, 171, 172 García Herrero, María del Carmen, 169, Fidāʾ. See also Ransom, xii, 181, 182, 176 183, 190, 192, 195, 196, 197 García Moreno, Luis A., 221, 233 Fiddle. See Lute, bowed García Sanjuán, Alejandro, 24, 39, 202, Fierro, Maribel, vi, vii, 23, 24, 25, 26, 28, 216 29, 37, 38-39, 203, 204, 208, 209, 210, Gardet, Louis, 187, 197 215, 217 Garrido, Pilar, 27, 40 Filios, Denise K., xi, xiii Garrido Garrido, José Manuel, 114, 131, Finial, 238 133 Fita, Fidel, 108, 126, 129, 132, 142, 144 Gayà Estelrich, Jordi, 45, 66 Fletcher, Richard A., 113, 132, 154, 157, Gayangos, Pascual de, 203, 216 161, 214, 215 Gender relations, 165 Fontenla, Salvador, 26, 39 General Estoria. See also Alfonso X, 21, 34 Fontevrault, 253 Genesis, 56 Food, 171, 172, 173 Genesis Rabbah, 62 Forcada, Miguel, 27, 39 Geoﬀ roy, Marc, 26, 39, 79 Fórneas, José María, 28, 39 Gerard of Cremona, 69 Franco, Francoist 232 Gershenzon, Shoshanna, 61, 66 Franco, Solomon, 7 Geticus, 228, 229 Franco Silva, Alfonso, 165, 175-176 El Ghannouchi, A., 71, 79 Frank, Barbara, 117, 120, 133 Gharāʾib. See also Wonders, 206 Franke, Patrick, 206, 215 al-Gharīd, 83 Frederick I, 30 al-Ghassānī, xii, 202, 203, 206, 213 Frederick II, 153, 236 al-Ghazālī, Abū Ḥ amīd, 70, 79, 183 Fricaud, Émile, 23, 25, 26, 29, 39 Ghazoul, Ferial J., 161 Frontier, v, xiv, 103, 118, 119, 159, 207, Gibraltar, Strait(s) of, xiii, 205, 219, 220, 251, 252 222, 224, 225, 227, 228, 229, 230, 231 Fuente, María Jesús, ix, x, xi, 164, 173, 176 Gil, Juan, 113, 133, 135 Fuero. See also Law, 33, 128, 164, 170 Gilson, Étienne, 34, 39 Fuero real. See also Alfonso X, 33 Giralda, xiii, 238 Funes, Leonardo, 35, 39 Glick, Th omas F., 17, 164, 176 Fuqahāʾ. See also Jurist, Law, 25 Godhead, 43, 44, 45, 48, 49, 51, 52, 54, Futūḥ Misṛ . See also Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥ akam, 57, 58, 64 xiii, 220, 223, 225, 233 Goitein, Shlomo D., 106, 133 Goldine, Nicole, 9, 17 Gabriel, Angel, 5 Goldstein, Bernard R., vi, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, Gabrieli, Francesco, 28, 39 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16-17 Gambra, Andrés, 113, 133 Gómez Moreno, Manuel, 128, 133 Gampel, Benjamin R., 4, 17 Gómez Muntané, María del Carmen, 87, Gana, Nouri, 214, 215, 216 88, 98 Garci Pérez, 9 Gómez Redondo, Fernando, 20, 39 Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii vii

González, Julio, 118, 119, 128, 130, 133, Haskins, Charles H., 130, 133 148 Hasse, Dag Nikolaus, 78, 79 González de Fauve, María Estela, 128, Ḥ ayy b. Yaqẓān, or Th e Self-Taught 133, 138, 142, 144 Philosopher. See also Ibn Ṭufayl, 21, 28 González Palencia, Ángel, 125, 133 Hecht, Jonathan L., 58, 60, 61, 62, 63, 66 González-Casanovas, Roberto J., 34, 40 Heine, Heinrich, 152, 154 Goodness, Dignity of. See also Dignities, Herlihy, David, 164, 176 45, 46, 47, 48, 54 Hernández, Francisco J., ix, 105, 106, 111, Gothic, 235, 236, 237, 238, 242, 243, 119, 125, 128, 129, 133, 148 246, 247, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254 Hernández Díaz, José, 247, 250, 256 Goytisolo, Juan, 232, 233 Hernández Juberías, Julia, 223, 233 Grammar, 27, 29 Herzog, Isaac, 106, 133 Granada, iii, iv, xii, 92, 152, 189, 201, ha-Ḥ ibbur ha-gadol (Th e Great 209, 211, 240 Composition). See also Zacut, 14 Granara, William, 214, 216 al-Ḥ imyarī, Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Granja, Fernando de la, 171, 176 al-Munʿim, 209, 216 Grauwen, Wilfried Marcel, 121, 134 Hintata Berbers. See also Berber, 184 Great Book of Songs. See Kitāb al-aghānī Hispania, x, xiii, 33, 219, 220, 222, 229, al-kabīr. See also al-Isbahānị̄ 230, 231 Great Composition. See ha-Ḥibbur ha-gadol Historia Arabum. See also Jiménez de Greatness. Dignity of. See also Dignities, Rada, 28 46, 47 História do cerco de Lisboa (Th e History of Gregory VII, Pope, 113 the Siege of Lisbon). See also Saramago, Griﬀ el, Frank, 28, 40 154 Guerrero, Rafael Ramón, 27, 40 Historia silense, xiii, 220, 222, 229, 230, Gutas, Dimitri, 6, 16, 17 233 Historiography, xiii, 21, 155, 157, 219, Haarmann, Ulrich, 205, 208, 210, 216 221, 222, 224, 226, 230, 232, 236 Ḥ adīth, Tradition of the Prophet, 22, 25, Th e History of the Siege of Lisbon. See 27, 29, 72, 191, 194, 204, 208, 209 História do cerco de Lisboa. See also Ḥ afsid,̣ 193 Saramago Ḥ ajj, 185 Hodgson, Marshall G. S., 36, 40 al-Ḥ akam I, viii, 85, 86 Hoenerbach, Wilhelm, 203, 216 al-Ḥ akam II, iv, 227 Holy Roman Emperor, 236, 241, 242, 252 Halbertal, Moshe, 59, 66 Holy Spirit, 48, 49, 61 Hallas, 166 Hopley, Russell, xi, xii Halm, Heinz, 24, 40, 201, 216 Hospitallers. See also Monastic orders, Hamdani, Sumaiya Abbas, 25, 40 117, 118 Hames, Harvey J., vi, vii, 45, 51, 58, Hostage. See also Irtīhān, 183, 186, 191, 59, 66 229 Hamilton, Rita, 156, 161 Hourani, George F., 70, 78, 79 Hargha Berbers. See also Berber, 184 Housekeeper, 165 Harris, Julie A., 237, 240, 256 Hudna, 183 Hartmann, Jörg, 117, 120, 133 Huelgas, Las (Burgos), x, 111, 112, 115, Harvey, L. P., 156, 157, 161 120, 126, 127, 128, 129, 150, 237, 241, Ḥ asan al-Qāʾid al-Zaʾīm, 209 244, 247, 248, 249, 251, 252, 253, 254 viii Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii

Huerta, 118, 120 Aḥmad, 204, 208, 216 Hugh of Cluny, Abbot, 113 Ibn Qutayba, 209 Huici Miranda, Ambrosio, 20, 40, 41 Ibn al-Qūtiyya,̣ Muḥammad ibn ʿUmar. Huidobro, Luciano, 134, 138 See also Tārīkh iftitāḥ al-Andalus, xiii, al-Ḥ umaydī, Muḥammad ibn Fattūh, 202, 84, 98, 202, 205, 216, 220, 227, 233 207, 208, 209, 216 Ibn Quzmān, 20 Ḥ unayn ibn Balūʿ al-Ḥ īrī, 83 Ibn Rushd. See Averroes Huntington, Samuel, 215, 216 Ibn Rushd, Abū ʾl-Walīd, xii, 182-197 Hybridization, viii, 80, 81, 86, 90, 97 Ibn Saʿīd, xii, 203, 206, 207 Ibn Sīnā. See Avincena Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥ akam. See also Futūh ̣ Misṛ , Ibn Surayj, 83 xiii, 220, 222, 223, 225, 226, 227, 233 Ibn Ṭāriq, Yaʿqūb. See also Ben Sharah, 5 Ibn ʿAbd ibn Zaylā, Ḥ asan, 85 Ibn Ṭufayl, 20, 21, 28 Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih, Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad, Ibn Tūmart al-Andalusī, Muḥammad, 21, 84, 98 22, 23, 24, 27, 40 Ibn Abī l-Buhlūl, Abū Mansūr,̣ 84 Ibn Ṭumlūs, 27 Ibn Arfaʿ Raʾsa-hu, 27 Ibn ʿUmrān, 193, 194, 195, 197 Ibn ʿĀsim,̣ 209 Ibn al-Yāsmīn, 29 Ibn al-ʿAwwām, 27 Ibn Zuhr, Abū Marwān, 27 Ibn Bājja, 86 Idel, Moshe, 44, 55, 57, 67 Ibn al-Baytar,̣ 27 Ifrīqīya, 188, 190, 191, 193, 194, 226 Ibn Buraym, Sāʿidah, 85 Iggeret Teshuvat Apikoros. See also Martin, Ibn Ezra, Abraham, 4, 5, 6, 8 Reymond, 60 Ibn Faḍlallāh al-ʿUmarī, Abū ʾl-ʿAbbās Ijmāʿ, 74, 191 Aḥmad Ibn-Yaḥyā Shihāb al-Dīn, 85, al-ʿIlm. See also Knowledge, 28 86, 90, 98 Imām, 24, 25, 196 Ibn Ḥ abīb, ʿAbd al-Malik, xiii, 202, 205, al-Imām al-Māzarī, 187 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 233 Imāma wa Siyāsa. See also Ibn Qutayba, Ibn al-Ḥ addād al-Wādī Āshī, Abū 209 ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad, 209 Incarnation, 45, 60 Ibn Ḥ ayyān, Abū Marwān Ḥ ayyān ibn Incoherence of the Incoherence. See Tahāfut Khalaf, 83, 84, 86, 98, 205, 216 al-tahāfut Ibn al-Kammād, 7, 8 Incoherence of the Philosophers. See Tahāfut Ibn al-Kharrāt,̣ 27 al-falāsifah Ibn al-Khatīb,̣ Lisān al-Dīn, 203, 206, India, 3, 5, 6, 13, 206 208, 210, 216 Th e Inﬁ nite, 44, 49 Ibn Masarra, 27 Inﬂ uence, iii, vi, ix, xi, 19, 21, 23, 24, 28, Ibn Mishʿab, 83 30, 33, 34, 36, 37, 80, 81, 82, 84, 86, Ibn Misjaḥ, 83 88, 90, 94, 96. 97, 113, 164, 173, 174, Ibn Muḥriz, 83 185, 212, 230, 232, 236, 247, 249 Ibn al-Murajjā, al-Musharraf, 205, 206, Inquisition, 164, 170, 173 207, 216 Integration, xi, 6, 163, 164, 172, 174, 231 Ibn al-Muthannā, 4, 5 Intellect, 47, 51, 52, 57, 65, 72 Ibn al-Qatṭ ān,̣ 27 Irtīhān, 183 Ibn Qudāma al-Maqdisī, Muḥammad b. Irving, Washington, 154 Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii ix

Isaac I Komnenos, 30 153, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, Isaac ibn Sid/ Isaac ben Sid. See also Rabi 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 188, 189, Çag of Toledo, 10-11 201, 205, 209, 235 Isaac Israeli of Toledo, 10 Jihād, iii, xii, xiii, 182, 184, 185, 194, 199, al-Isbahānī,̣ Abū ʾl-Faraj, 82, 85, 91, 98 207, 208, 210, 212, 213 Ishbān, 206 Jiménez de Rada, Rodrigo, 28, 35, 114, Isidore of Seville, Saint [Isidoro], 155, 231, 135, 238, 241 233, 237 Jizya, 188, 190, 192 Isidoro, See Isidore of Seville Johannes Regiomontanus, 14 Islam, Islamic, iii, iv, v, vii, ix, x, xi, xii, John of Biclaro, 155 xiii, 3, 5, 6, 21, 23, 25, 26, 27, 28, 30, John of Dumpno, 7 36, 65, 69, 70, 77, 82, 84, 85, 89, 94, John of Lignères, 11, 12 104, 152, 153, 155, 159, 160, 167, John of Murs, 12 168, 173, 181, 182, 184, 185, 186, Joseph b. R. Nathan Oﬃ cial, 53, 67 187, 188, 189, 191, 194, 196, 197, Juan I of Aragón, 87 199, 200, 204, 205, 207, 208, 210, Juan II of Castile, 87, 88 212, 214, 222, 224, 226, 227, 235, Juan, King of Navarre, 88 236, 237, 238, 251, 254 Juan de Salaya, 15 Islamic West. See also Maghreb, 28, 159, Judah ben Moses ha-Cohen, 9, 10 181, 182, 186, 187, 189, 194, 197 Judaism, vii, 44, 50, 59, 168, 235 Islamicate, 36, 37 Judeoconverso, 164, 167, 170 Ismāʿīlism, 23 Judeo-Spanish, 108 Iulianus. See Julián Juglar, 87 ʿIyāḍ ibn Mūsa. Also, al-Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ Julián, Count/Conde, xiii, 219-233 al-Yaḥsūbī al-Sabtī, 187, 188, 189, 190, Jurist. See also Fuqahāʾ, Law, xii, 25, 26, 192, 197, 211 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 196, Jacob ben David Bonjorn, 7 197, 209 Jadhwat al-Muqtabas fī Dhikr Walāt al-Andalus. See also al-Ḥ umaydī, 202, Kaʿb al-Aḥbār, 209 207, 209, 216 Kabbalah, vii, 22, 26, 27, 34, 43, 54, 55, James I, King, 50 57, 61 James, Saint, the Moor Slayer. See Kanz al-ʿulūm. See also Ibn Tūmart, 27 Santiago Matamoros Karge, Henrik, 253, 256 al-Janadī, Abū Saʿīd al-Mufaḍḍal, 204, 216 Katz, Jacob, 174, 176 Játiva, 87 Kaufman, Debra R., 168, 176 Jaume II of Aragón, 87 Kaul, Mythili, 161 Jerusalem, 13, 15, 160, 166, 168, 204, Kennedy, Hugh, 205, 216 205, 207, 208, 210 Khālid b. Sinān, 23 Jewell, Helen M., 164, 176 Kharjas, 80, 81 Jews, Jewish, iii, iv, v, vii, viii, ix, x, xi, 3, al-Khiḍr, 205, 206 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 16, al-Khwārizmī, 4, 5, 6 32, 36, 43, 44, 45, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, al-Kindī, ʿUmar b. Muḥammad b. Yūsuf, 52, 54, 58, 59, 60, 61, 65, 82, 84, 85, 16, 205, 216 86, 87, 88, 97, 103-131, 138, 151, 152, Kitāb al-aghānī al-kabīr (Th e Great Book of x Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii

Songs). See also al-Isbahānī,̣ 82, 85, 91 220, 221, 222, 228, 230, 231, 232, 242 Kitāb alif bāʾ. See also al-Balawī, 27 Latin Chronicle of the Kings of Castile. See Kitāb Aʿmāl al-Aʿlām. See also Ibn Crónica latina al-Khatīb,̣ 203, 206, 216 Latin West, viii, 8, 69, 70, 78 Kitāb al-jāmiʿ. See also Ibn al-Baytar,̣ 27 Law, law codes, viii, xi, xii, xiv, 5, 22, 25, Kitāb al-muqniʿ fī ʾl-ﬁ lāḥa. See also Ibn 26, 32, 33, 34, 69, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, al-ʿAwwām, 27 76, 77, 89, 106, 164, 166, 168, 170, Kitāb al-taḥlīlāt al-thānīyah. See Posterior 181, 186, 191, 196, 197 Analytics. See also Aristotle Lawrence of Arabia, 160 Kitāb al-tahlilāt al-ūlā. See Prior Analytics. al-Layt ̣ b. Saʿd, 226 See also Aristotle Leaman, Oliver, 70, 73, 79 Kitāb al-Taʾrīkh. See also Ibn Ḥ abīb, xiii, Lefèvre, P. F., 121, 134 202, 220, 223, 233 Legislation. Legal literature. See also Law, Kitāb al-taysīr. See also Ibn Zuhr, 27 164, 181, 183 Knowledge, vi, vii, x, 4, 5, 8, 19, 21, 22, Lendas da Índia. See also Correia, 13 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 34, Leo Africanus. See also Maalouf, 154 36, 44, 45, 52, 53, 57, 61, 62, 63, 64, León, Leonese, 87, 88, 105, 113, 118, 71, 72, 74, 75, 76, 77, 223, 224 155, 157, 232, 237, 241 242 ha-Kohen, Isaac ben Samson, 53, 67 Leonor, Queen of Castile, 148 Kosmer, Ellen, 236, 256 Levi, Rabbi, 63 Kosto, Adam Joshua, 120, 134, 257 Lévy, Simon, 29, 40 Kulliyyāt. See also Averroes, 27 Lévy, Tony, 8, 18 Kürschner, Heike, 117, 120, 133 Lewis, Bernard, iv, xiv, 215, 217 Liber de convenientia ﬁ dei et intellectus in Ladero Quesada, Miguel Ángel, 244, 251, obiecto. See also Llull, 65, 67 256 Liber embadorum. See also Bar Ḥ iyya, 8 Lagardère, Vincent, 182, 183, 198 Libera, Alain de, 36, 40, 70, 79 Laguna Paúl, Teresa, 241, 242, 256 Libre de Déu. See also Llull, 45, 46, 47, Lambert, Élie, 244, 256 48, 49 Lane-Poole, Stanley, 160, 161 Libro de Alexandre, 35 Langermann, Y. Tzvi, 7, 13, 17-18 Libro de buen amor. See also Ruiz, Juan, Languedoc, 103, 104, 117, 118, 119, 120, 120, 136 126, 129, 130 Libro de la caza. See also Manuel, Juan, Lapesa, Rafael, 109, 114, 126, 130, 134 30, 34 Lapidary. See also Alfonso X, 9 Libro de los cien capítulos. See also Lapidus, Ira M., 4, 18 Alfonso X, 30 Lardreau, Guy, 33, 38 Libro del saber de astrología. See also Th e Last Kabbalist of Lisbon. See also Alfonso X, 32 Zimler, 154 Liebes, Yehuda, 58, 67 Latin, x, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, 24, Linehan, Peter, 35, 40, 113, 134, 157, 44, 45, 59, 76, 78, 104, 106, 108, 111, 161, 251, 256 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 119, 120, Lisbon, 13, 88 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 130, 219, Liu, Benjamin M., 87, 98 Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii xi

Livne-Kafri, Ofer, 204, 208, 217 Manuel, King, 13 Lizoain Garrido, José Manuel, 127, 128, Manuel, Juan, 30, 34, 36, 41 134, 150 al-Manūnī, Muḥammad, 27, 41 Lleal, Coloma, 109, 134 Manuscrit trouvé à Saragosse Llull, Ramon, vii, viii, 43-58, 60, 61, 64, (Th e Manuscript Found in Saragossa) 65, 67 See also Potocki, 154 Loaysa, Jofre de, 31, 40 Manzano Moreno, Eduardo, 221, 224, 234 Lomax, Derek W., 109, 119, 134 al-Maqqarī, Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad, xii, Long Commentary on the Metaphysics of 83, 84, 85, 86, 98, 152, 161, 202, 203, Aristotle. See Tafsīr mā baʿd at-Ṭ ̣abīʿat. 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, See also Averroes 216, 217 López-Baralt, Luce, 201, 217 Maravall, José Antonio, 30, 32, 33, 34, 41 López García, Ángel, 112, 113, 134 Marco de Toledo, 24 López de Gómara, Francisco, 89 Marín, Manuela, 19, 20, 24, 41, 165, 176, Louis IX, 236, 252, 253 202, 206, 215, 216, 217 Lourie, Elena, 172, 176 Marín Padilla, Encarnación, 165, 167-168, Lowney, Chris, v, xiv, 200, 217 171, 173, 176 Lucae Tudensis. See Lucas, Bishop of Tuy Marinid invasion, 156 Lucas, Bishop of Tuy. See also Chronicon Marlowe, Stephen, 154 mundi, xiii, 35, 220, 230, 231, 232, 233 Mármol Carvajal, Luis del, 90, 98 Lucidario. See also Sancho IV, 32, 36, 41 Marmura, Michael E., 70, 79 Lūdrīq. See Rodrigo, King Márquez Villanueva, Francisco, 20, 31, 34, Lute, bowed, viii, ix, 80, 81-82, 91, 96 37, 41 Marrakesh, 182, 184, 185, 187, 189, 190 Maalouf, Amin, 154 Martí, Ramón. See Martin, Reymond Maʿbad, 83 Martin, Georges, 33, 38 Machado, Osvaldo, 220, 234 Martin, Reymond [Martí, Ramón], 50, Madhhab ﬁ kr, 28 51, 53, 65, 67 Maghreb, xii, 29, 159, 181, 182, 185, 187, Martínez de Aguirre Aldaz, Javier, 241, 188, 190, 191, 193, 197, 219, 220, 242, 256 222, 224, 225, 226, 227, 231 Martínez Montávez, Pedro, 213, 214, 217 Mahdī, 23, 184, 185, 210 Martins, Ana Maria, 105, 120, 134 Mahdiya, 187, 193, 195 Masālik al-absāṛ fī mamālik al-amsāṛ , (Th e Maimonides, 44, 59 Paths of Perception among the Kingdoms Majorca, 44, 157 of the Capitals), 85 al-Majrītī,̣ Maslama, 4 Masmūda,̣ Berbers. See also Berber, 23 Makdisi, George, 28, 41 Masud, Muhammad Khalid, 171, 176 Makkī, Maḥmūd ʿAlī, 209, 217, 226, 234 al-Masʿūdī, 206 Mālik b. Anas, 196, 197 Matar, Nabil I., 160, 161, 203, 206, 217 Mālik ibn Abī Samḥ, 83 Mathematics, 29 Malikite, 26 Mauritania, 155 al-Maʾmūn, 29 Medicine, 27, 165, 168 al-Mansūṛ (Almanzor), 156 Medina, 83, 84, 196, 197, 204 xii Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii

Meknes, 182, 187, 189 Morphology, 105, 112, 113, 116, 123, 125 Melammed, Renee Levine, 168, 176 Mosque, xiii, 168, 172, 174, 188, 212, Memory, 51, 112, 153, 212, 214 235, 236, 238, 240, 244, 249, 251, Menéndez y Pelayo, Marcelino, 31, 41 252, 254 Menéndez Pidal, Ramón, 20, 87, 88, 97, Mosque, Great, xiv, 235, 236, 237, 238, 98, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 114, 116, 240, 241, 242, 243, 248, 249, 254 117, 120, 121, 123, 127, 128, 134, Most Precious Quest. See Aʾazz mā yutlaḅ 138, 142, 144, 147, 149, 150, 157, Mostrador de justicia. See also Alfonso of 221, 229, 234, 254 Valladolid, 58, 60, 64, 66 Menocal, María Rosa, iv, xiv, 20, 41, 153, Mozarab, Mozarabic, 91, 92, 94, 96, 104, 161, 200, 217, 236, 242, 255 111, 113, 124, 125, 126, 128, 130, Merchants, 6, 109, 183, 185, 186, 187, 148, 152, 230 190, 192, 196, 228 Mudejar, x, 29, 154, 156, 157, 235, 236 Merrills, A. H., 231, 234 al-Mughrib fī Ḥ ulā al-Maghrib. See also Messier, Ronald A., 194, 198 Ibn Saʿīd, 203 Mester de clerecía, 35 Muḥammad (Prophet), 5, 22, 23, 156, Metaphysics, 69, 72, 73, 76, 77 158, 168, 191, 196, 197, 207, 208 Meyer, Paul, 109, 110, 134 Muḥammad Kāmil al-Khatīb,̣ 212, 214 Michael Scot, 69 Muḥammad al-ʿUtbī, 196 Midrash, viii, 53, 54, 55, 61 Muḥyī ʾl-dīn Ibn ʿArabī, 20, 27 Millares Carlo, Agustín, 113, 134 Multiculturalism, v, vi, x, 152, 153, 159, Millás Vallicrosa, José María, 8, 18 163, 200, 235, 254 Millás Vendrell, Eduardo, 4, 18 Muʾminid dynasty, 21, 22 Milliot, Louis, 191, 198 Mundó, Anscari M., 113, 135 Mirrer, Louise, 151, 159, 161 al-Muqaddima. See also al-Djazūlī, 29 Misr, 226 Murray, Jacqueline, 165, 176 Molénat, Jean-Pierre, 125, 134-135 Mūsā (Moses), 206, 223 Molina, Luis, 37, 203, 204, 205, 215, 217 Mūsā, 205, 221, 223, 226, 227 Monastic expansion, ix, 120 Music, iii, vi, viii, ix, 80-97, 158, 173 Monastic orders, ix, x, 105, 106, 110, 115, Muslim, iv, v, vii, x, xi, xii, xiii, 3, 4, 5, 117, 118, 120, 126, 130 6, 7, 9, 13, 16, 22, 23, 29, 32, 36, 43, Monfar y Sors, Diego de, 119, 135 44, 45, 65, 70, 77, 78, 80, 81, 82, 83, Monroe, James T., 19, 41, 87, 98, 201, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 94, 96, 211, 217 97, 103, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, La Montaña, 109 157, 158, 159, 160, 163, 164, 165, Monterde Albiac, Cristina, 112, 124, 135 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, Montero, Ana M., 19, 21, 32, 33, 34, 35, 173, 174, 181, 182, 183, 185, 186, 36, 41 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, Moor, x, 32, 94, 151-160, 229 194, 195, 196, 199, 200, 202, 203, Th e Moorʾs Last Sigh. See also Rushdie, 154 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, Morales, Alfredo J., 238, 256 211, 214, 219, 220, 221 222, 223, Morales Méndez, Enrique, 252, 256 224, 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, Morales Padrón, Francisco, 244, 256 232, 237, 238, 240, 241, 243, 248, Moran i Ocerinjauregui, Josep, 120, 135 251, 252 Morisco, xii, 89, 92, 94, 154, 164, 166, al-Muʿtamid, 85 168, 174, 201, 210, 213 Muwalladūn, 152 Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii xiii

Muwashshaḥ, 81 Oña, 110, 111, 112, 113 Orlandis, José, 237, 257 Nafḥ al-Ṭīb min ghusṇ al-Andalus al-ratīḅ Ortega y Cotes, Ignacio José, 135, 149 wa-dhikr wazīrihā Lisān al-Dīn ibn Ortega Zúñiga y Aranda, Pedro de, 135, al-Khatīḅ . (Scented/Sweet Breeze/ 149 Fragrance from the Tender/Lush Branch Ortiz de Zúñiga, Diego, 244, 250, 252, of al-Andalus and Mention of its Vizier 257 Lisān al-Dīn Ibn al-Khatīb). See also Othello, 153, 161 al-Maqqarī, 83, 152, 161, 202, 203, Otto III, 242 205, 206, 207, 208, 210, 211, 217 Nagel, Tilman, 28, 41 Palencia, 32, 35, 122, 125 Nahmanides, 44, 50, 67 Palermo, 7 Nallino, Carlo Alfonso, 4, 18 Palomo Fernández, Gema, 249, 253, 257 Nashīt, 83 Paradela Alonso, Nieves, 213, 218 Nasrid, xiii, 152, 210 Paradise, paradise lost, iii, xiii, 199, 205, Navarre, 87, 88, 114, 124, 157 210, 211, 212, 213, 214 Navarro García, José Luis, 89, 98 Pardo, Pablo, 213, 218 Las Navas de Tolosa, 26, 253 Paris, 8, 11, 12, 13, 14, 35, 45 Navigation, navigators, 13, 14 Paths of Perception among the Kingdoms al-Naẓar, 71, 72, 73, 75 of the Capitals. See Masālik al-absār fī Neugebauer, Otto, 4, 18 mamālik al-amsār Neuman, Abraham A., 59, 67 Paul, Friar, 50 Nicholas III, 35 Pedersen, Fritz Saaby, 6, 18 Nicolaus de Heybech of Erfurt, 15 Pedro III of Aragón, 87 Nicolaus Polonius, 15 Pedro IV of Aragón, 87 Nieto Soria, José Manuel, 35, 41, 177 Pedro el Ceremonioso of Aragón, 7 Nirenberg, David, 165, 177 Pelagius, Pelayo, 228, 229, 230 Noorani, Yaseen, 214, 218 Penny, Ralph J., 113, 135 North, John D., 12, 18 Pérès, Henri, 213, 214, 218 North Africa, iv, xi, xii, 4, 13, 19, 27, 29, Pérez, Garci, 9 85, 89, 92, 152, 154, 155, 159, 160, Pérez, Juan, 110 181, 182, 184, 187, 189, 190, 191, Pérez de Ayllón, Millán, 110 192, 196, 197, 201, 202, 210, 223, 225 Pérez de Castro, Álvar, 36 Nostalgia, iii, xii, xiii, 199, 200, 201, 204, Pérez Soler, María Desamparados, 114, 135 210, 211, 212, 213, 214 Pérez-Embid Wamba, Javier, 118, 135 Notary, 104, 105, 106, 113, 114, 117, Perry, Janet H., 156, 161 119, 120, 122, 125, 129, 130 Perry, Mary Elizabeth, 166, 168, 169, 174, Nursemaid, xi, 165, 171, 173 177 Núñez Muley, Francisco, 89 Persecution, 163, 169 Perushei ha-Aggadot. See also Adret, 55, Ocaña, 125, 149 57, 65, 66 OʾCallaghan, Joseph F., 33, 41-42, 124, Peters, Rudolph, 25, 37 135, 158, 161, 240, 241, 252, 256-257 Petrus Alfonsi, 60 Occitan, 80, 117 Philosophy, vii, viii, ix, 19, 21, 22, 25, 26, On the Motion of the Fixed Stars. See also 27, 32, 36, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, Azarquiel, 6 76, 77, 78, 182, 212 xiv Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii

Pi-Sunyer, Oriol, 164, 176 Qādị̄ al-qudāṭ , xii, 182 Pingree, David, 5, 18 Qays, 23 Plantagenet dynasty, 237, 253 al-Qawānīn fī ʿilm al-ʿarabiyya. See also Plato of Tivoli, 8 al-Shalawbīnī, 27 Plunder, 189, 192, 193, 205 Qiyās, 72, 73, 75 Pluralism, xi, 25, 153 Qurʾān, 5, 22, 23, 25, 27, 29, 72, 75, 168, Poema de Fernán González, x, 156 191, 204, 206, 223, 224, 234 Poema de mio Cid, 154, 156, 157, 158 Quraysh, 23 Pogroms of 1391, 164 al-Qurtubī,̣ 27, 29 Poland, 11, 15 Polgar, Isaac ben Joseph. Also Pulgar, Isaac Rabāb. See Rabel ben Joseph, 60, 66 Rábade Obradó, Pilar, 164, 177 Politics, iv, ix, 211 Rabbi, 54, 57, 152, 165, 166 Ponce de Cabrera, 118 Rabbi, female, 165 Portugal, 13, 14, 88, 105, 120, 160 Rabbinical School, scribe, 106 Posterior Analytics. See also Aristotle, 72, Rabel, rabāb, 82, 87, 96 74, 78 Rabella i Ribas, Joan Anton, 120, 135 Posturas of Toledo of 1207, 105, 129 Rabi Çag of Toledo, 10 Potocki, Jan, 154 Raiders, Christian, 186, 193 Power, Eileen Edna, 174, 177 Raiding party/parties. See also Sarīya, 183, Powers, James F., 166, 177, 236, 256 185, 186, 188, 192 Prayer, 53, 156, 160, 165, 168, 172 Raiding vessels, 192 Prefatio de Almaria, 116, 135 Ramon de Penyafort, 50 Prémontré, Order of Canons Regular. See Ransom, xi, xii, 181, 182, 183, 184, 190, also Monastic orders, 105, 120, 121, 191, 192, 195, 196 123, 129 Rationalism, viii, 69, 70, 71, 75, 76, 77, 78 Primera crónica general. See also Alfonso Remensnyder, Amy G., 237, 241, 257 X, 155, 242 Reminiscence, Remembering, xii, 51, 52, Pring-Mill, R. D. F., 45, 67 199-214 Prior Analytics. See also Aristotle, 74 Renan, Ernest, 70, 79 Prisoner, xii, 125, 181, 182, 186, 195, 240 Revelation, 24 Procter, Evelyn S., 9, 18 Reynolds, Dwight F., vi, viii, ix, 84, 85, 98 Prophet. See Muḥammad (Prophet) Ribera, Julián, 80, 97, 98-99, 202, 218, 233 Propp, Vladimir, 224, 234 Richter-Bernburg, Lutz, 6, 18 Proto-Romance. See also Romance, 110, Rico, Francisco, 34, 42 113, 114 Rigal, J. L., 117, 132 Provence, 88, 117, 119 Rihlaṭ al-Wazīr. See also al-Ghassānī, 203 Providence, Divine, 59 La Rioja, 109 Psalms. See also Midrash, 53, 61 Rioseco, 118, 126 Ptolemy, 4, 7, 8, 10 Risālat shudhūr al-dhahab fī ʿilm sinạ̄ ʿat al- Pugio ﬁ dei Mauros et Judaeos. See also kīmiyāʾ. See also Ibn Arfaʿ Raʾsa-hu, 27 Martin, Reymond, 51, 67 Rituals, 69, 77, 106, 165, 166, 167, 169 Rivera Recio, Juan Francisco, 125, 135 Qādị̄ , 70, 193, 194 Robin Hood: Prince of Th ieves, 159 al-Qāḍī ʿIyāḍ al-Yaḥsūbī al-Sabtī. See ʿIyāḍ Robin of Locksley, 159 ibn Mūsa Robinson, Cynthia, 210, 218, 256 Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii xv

Roderick. See Rodrigo, King Sancho Corbacho, Antonio, 247, 250, Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, 157, 158, 159 256 Rodrigo, King, 220, 221, 225, 227, 229 Sanders, Paula, 106, 133 Rodríguez de Diego, José Luis, 119, 121, Santa Ana, Church of, 243, 244, 245, 246, 128, 135, 138, 142, 144, 146 247, 249, 250 Rodríguez López, Ana, 30, 42 Santa Lucía, Church of, 243, 249 Rodríguez de la Peña, Manuel Alejandro, Santa María, Aguilar de Campoo, ix, 105, 33, 35, 37, 42 144 Rodríguez-Picavea, Enrique, 124, 125, Santa Marina, Church of, 246, 247, 248, 136, 148 249 Rogozen-Soltar, Mikaela, 213, 218 Santiago de Compostela, 240 Romance, ix, x, xi, 15, 29, 45, 103-131, Santiago Matamoros (St. James the Moor 152, 153 Slayer), 156 Romanesque, 250, 252 Sapientialism, 19, 21, 37 Rome, 91, 105, 113 Ṣaqāliba, 152 Rosell, Cayetano, 88, 99 Sarachek, Joseph, 59, 67 Rucquoi, Adelina, 31, 34, 35, 36, 42 Saramago, José, 154 Ruiz, Juan, 120, 136 Sarīya. See also Raiding party, 183 Ruiz, María Cecila, 35, 42 Sawa, George, 91, 99 Ruiz Asencio, José Manuel, 113, 134 Scented Breeze. See Nafḥ al-Ṭīb. See also Ruiz-Domènec, José Enrique, 164, 177 al-Maqqarī Ruiz Souza, Juan Carlos, 240, 248, 249, Scholem, Gershom Gerhard, 44, 67 253, 257 Scobie, Edward, 160, 162 Rushdie, Salman, 154 Scribe, x, 105, 106, 107, 108, 116, 123, Russell-Gebbett, Paul, 120, 136 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130 Script, x, 103-131 Sabra, Abdelhamid I., 6, 18 Script, Romance code, ix, xi, 103-131 Sacramenia, 118 Script, Visigothic, 110, 113 al-Safāh, 5 Script culture, 110, 111, 112, 115, 120, Safran, Janina M., 221, 227, 228, 234 121, 123, 128 Saḥnūn, 196 Scriptoria, scriptorium, 34, 110, 112, 120, Ṣāʿid al-Andalusī, 6 130 Saige, Gustave, 130, 136 Seco, Manuel, 134 Saint Catherine, Chapel of, 253 Seﬁ rot. See also Dignities, 43, 44, 47, 49, Salamanca, 13, 14, 15, 32 53, 55, 57, 64 Salīm, 86 Seizure, 183, 184, 185, 186, 190, 191, Salvador Martínez, H., 34, 36, 42 192, 193, 196, 231, 240 Samsó, Julio, 4, 16, 18, 215, 217 Sela, Shlomo, 9, 18 Samuel ha-Levi, 9 Self-Taught Philosopher. See Ḥ ayy b. San Clemente, Toledo, x, 112, 120, 129 Yaqẓān. See also Ibn Ṭufayl San Gil, Church of, 249, 250 Serrano, Luciano, 113, 114, 127, 136 San Millán de la Cogolla, 91, 112, 113 Servant, 195 Sánchez Ameijeiras, Rocío, 242, 257 Setenario. See also Alfonso X, 21, 34 Sancho III of Castile, 124, 148 Seville, xiii, xiv, 31, 35, 70, 85, 228, Sancho IV of Castile and León, 32, 35, 235-254 36, 87 Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree. See also xvi Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii

Ali, Tariq, 154 Syllogism, 73, 74, 75 Shailor, Barbara A., 113, 136 Syria, ix, 85, 152, 204, 206, 208, 213 al-Shalawbīnī, 27 Szpiech, Ryan W., 58, 60, 68 Shalem, Avinoam, 240, 257 Sharīʿa. See also Law, viii, 71, 76, 196 Tables of Barcelona, 7 al-Shātibī,̣ 29 Tables of Marseilles, 6 Shiʿite, 6, 22, 23, 24, 25 Tabule veriﬁ cate, 15 Sicily, 7, 69, 153, 188, 190, 193, 194, 236 Tafsīr. See also al-Qurtubī,̣ 27 Siete partidas. See also Alfonso X, 32, 33 Tafsīr mā baʿd at-Ṭ ̣abīʿat (Long Al-Sifr al-thānī min kitāb al-muqtabas Commentary on the Physics of Aristotle). l-Ibn Ḥ ayyān al-qurtubī. See also Ibn See also Averroes, viii, 71, 75, 76, 78 Ḥ ayyān, 83, 98 Tahāfut al-falāsifah (Incoherence of the Silos, Santo Domingo de, 91, 113 Philosophers). See also al-Ghazali, 70, 79 Silver, Daniel Jeremy, 59, 68 Tahāfut al-tahāfut (Incoherence of the Simlai, Rabbi, 62 Incoherence). See also Averroes, 70, 77, 78 al-Ṣinhājī al-Daqūn, Aḥmad b. Ṭāʾifa, 183, 184, 186, 201 Muḥammad, 211 Ṭalaba, 24, 26, 27, 29 Sirat, Colette, 60, 68 Ṭalabat al-ḥadaṛ , 24 Sivan, Emanuel, 204, 206, 207, 210, 218 Talavera, Bishop, 89 Slaves, 83, 84, 86, 152, 165 Talbi, Mohamed, 189, 198 Smith, Colin, 155, 156, 162 Tales of the Alhambra. See also Irving, 154 Smithuis, Renate, 9, 18 Tārīkh iftitāḥ al-Andalus. See also Ibn Snir, Reuven, 200, 218 al-Qūtiyya,̣ 202, 216, 220, 227, 233 Soferim, x, 104, 106, 124, 130 Ṭāriq, Tarec, Tarich, 205, 223, 224, 225, Solomon, 31 226, 227, 228, 229, 231 Solomon, Table of, 205, 226 Taylor, Richard C., vi, viii, 70, 74, 79 Song of Songs. See also Solomon, 31 Tempier, Bishop, 35 Souaiaia, Aḥmed E., 223, 234 Templars. See also Monastic orders, 117, Spoils of war. See Booty 118 Stearns, Justin, xi-xii, 204, 218 Teshuvot ha-Rashba. See also Adret, 51, 52, Stern, Samuel M., 81, 99 53, 55, 56, 65, 66 Stetkevych, Jaroslav, 210, 218 Teshuvot le-Meharef. See also Alfonso of Stevenson, Robert Murrell, 89, 99 Valladolid, 60, 66 Stewart, Devin J., 25, 42 Th aghar, 189 Th e Story of the Moors in Spain. See also al-Tifāshī, Aḥmad, 86, 90 Lane-Poole, 160, 161 Tingitania, 229, 231 Strait(s). See Gibraltar Tolan, John Victor, 221, 222, 228, 231, Stroumsa, Sarah, 26, 42 234 Suﬁ sm, 28 Toledo, 4, 9, 10, 69, 104, 109, 111, 112, al-Suhaylī, 27 113, 119, 120, 124, 125, 126, 128, Sunna, 191, 197 129, 148, 149, 153, 155, 183, 184, Sunni, 6, 22, 23, 24, 25 185, 186, 187, 189, 192, 196, 206, Suter, Heinrich, 4, 18 207, 230 Sweet Fragrance. See Nafḥ al-Ṭīb. See also Toledo, School of, v al-Maqqarī Tolerance, iii, iv, v, 200 Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii xvii

Torah, 56, 57, 59, 60, 88, 168, 172 Vidal Beltrán, Eliseo, 226, 234 Torres, Diego de, 15 Vienna, 14, 213 Tradition. See also Customs, v, vi, vii, Viguera Molins, María Jesús, 20, 38, 42, viii, x, 3, 4, 5, 8, 9, 12, 13, 25, 34, 59, 202, 218 69, 70, 71, 78, 80, 81, 82, 85, 86, 89, Vimond, John, 8, 12 90, 106, 108, 115, 120, 123, 166, 169, Virgin, Virgin Mary, 31, 173, 237, 241, 244 172, 174, 184, 191, 197, 202, 207, Visigothic script. See Script, Visigothic 208, 209, 219, 221, 222, 223, 224, Visigoths, Goths, iv, xiii, 20, 33, 155, 206, 226, 229, 231, 232, 237, 243 209, 225, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232, 241 Tradition of the Prophet. See Ḥadīth Victica. See Vitiza Treatise on the Azafea. See also Vitiza, 221, 227, 228, 229, 230 Azarquiel, 10 Vitoria, 110 Treatise on the Horizontal Instrument. See Vivero, Gonzalo de, 15 also Ben Verga, 13 Vogel, Frank E., 25, 37 Trinity, viii, 43-65 Vuittiza. See Vitiza Tripolitania, 189 Truce. See also Hudna, 183, 184, 185, Al-Wādī Āshī, Abū ʿAbdallāh Muḥammad 186, 188, 192 b. al-Ḥaddād, 209 Tunis, 11 Walker, Rose, 113, 136 Tunisia, 189, 190, 193 Walsh, Th omas J., 113, 136 al-Ṭurtushī,̣ Abū Bakr, 183, 187, 188 Wanner, Dieter, 106, 136 Tyan, Émile, 187, 198 Wansharīsī, Aḥmad ibn Yaḥyā, 181, 183, 184, 190, 193, 194, 195, 198 Ujjain, 5 Watt, W. Montgomery, 153, 162 ʿUlamāʾ, xii, 22, 24, 181, 182, 183, 184, Weiditz, Christoph, 93, 94, 99 185, 187, 197 Wheeler, Brannon M., 224, 234 ʿUmar, pact of, 187 White, Hayden, 221, 234 Umayyad, iii, ix, xii, 19, 21, 86, 95, 155, Wiegers, Gerard, 29, 42 206, 210, 219, 226, 227, 231, 238, 240 Will, 48, 50, 51 Umma, 70, 154, 169, 197 Wisdom, 5, 30, 31, 48, 50, 53, 61, 62, 63, Understanding, viii, 28, 31, 32, 47, 51, 64, 77 52, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 73 Witiza. See Vitiza Urvoy, Dominique, 21, 27, 42 Wolf, Kenneth Baxter, 155, 162 Women, x, xi, 109, 163-174, 232 Vajda, George, 24, 37 Wonders, xii, xiv, 199, 204, 205, 206, 207, 213 Valbuena, 118 Wright, Roger, 104, 105, 113, 116, 117, Valdeón Baruque, Julio, 164, 177, 218 129, 136 Valladolid, 88, 96, 109, 130, 172 Writing. See Script Valous, Guy de, 109, 136 Valpuesta, 114, 116 Ximénez de Rada. See Jiménez de Rada Van Liere, Katherine Elliot, 156, 162 Van Sertima, Ivan, 160, 162 Yahweh, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57 Vargas Ponce, José, 104, 136 Yamur. See Finial Vega, Miguel, 23, 26, 42 Yulyān. See Julián Viana, Prince of, 87 Yūsuf, ʿAli b., 182, 183 xviii Index / Medieval Encounters 15 (2009) i-xviii

Yūsuf b. Tāshufīn, Abū al-Ṭāhir Tamīm b., Zambra, 88 159, 183 Zanāta Berber. See also Berber, 23 Zarqūn, 83 Zacut, Abraham, 3, 11, 14, 15 al-Zīj al-Muqtabis. See also Ibn Zakī, Aḥmad, 206, 212, 213, 214, 218 al-Kammād, 7 Zimler, Robert, 154 Ziryāb, 83 Zoﬂ oya or, Th e Moor. See also Dacre, 154